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GERALDINE  BONNER 


HAHD-PAN 


HARD-PAN 

A  STORY  OF  BONANZA  FORTUNES 


BY 

GERALDINE  BONNER 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1900 


Copyright,  1900,  by 
The  Century  Co. 


The  DeVinne  Press. 


-r     ,,  N  f 


v. 


M  ^  tAJ 


HARD-PAN 


M5594:06 


HARD-PAN 


DINNER  was  coming  to  an  end.  The 
Chinaman,  soft-footed  in  his  immaculate 
white,  had  just  finished  his  circuit  of  the  table, 
leaving  a  tiny  gold-rimmed  coffee-cup  at  each 
of  the  four  plates.  Into  hers  Letitia  was  low- 
ering a  lump  of  sugar,  when  a  thought  occurred 
to  her,  and  she  dropped  the  sugar  into  the  cup 
with  a  little  splash,  and  looking  across  at  her 
vis-a-vis,  said : 

"  Oh,  John,  I  've  been  going  to  ask  you  half 
a  dozen  of  times,  and  have  always  forgotten: 
did  you  know  that  Colonel  Ramsay  Reed  had 
a  daughter ! " 

To  see  the  effect  of  her  question,  she  stretched 
forward  a  plump  white  hand  and  tilted  to  one 
side  one  of  the  pink  silk  petticoats  that  veiled 
the  candle-flames.  The  obstruction  removed, 
she  looked  with  vivacious  interest  at  the  person 
to  whom  she  had  addressed  her  query.    He,  too. 


2  HARD-PAN 

had  just  dropped  his  sugar  into  his  coffee,  and 
was  stirring  it  slowly,  watching  the  little  mael- 
strom in  the  cup. 

"Colonel  Eamsay  Reed,"  he  said,  without 
looking  up.  "Yes,  I  think  I  've  heard  some- 
thing about  his  having  a  daughter.  But  why 
do  you  ask  me?  Is  n't  Maud  a  much  better 
person?  She  knows  everything  about  every- 
body." 

He  glanced  at  his  sister-in-law,  the  dark, 
brown-eyed  woman,  very  splendid  in  her  white- 
and-yellow  dress,  who  sat  at  the  head  of  the 
small  table.  It  was  just  a  family  party— Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Mortimer  Gault,  Mrs.  Mortimer's  sis- 
ter, Letitia  Mason,  and  Mortimer's  brother, 
John  Gault.  Mrs.  Gault,  who  seemed  to  be 
quite  oblivious  to  the  impertinence  of  her  bro- 
ther-in-law's remark,  answered  smartly : 

"  I  should  n't  be  surprised  to  hear  that  Colo- 
nel Eeed  had  daughters  by  the  dozens.  Who 
knows  really  anything  about  those  old  bonanza 
men  who  've  lost  their  bonanzas!  They  drop 
out  of  sight,  and  nobody  ever  hears  of  them 
again.  Colonel  Reed  was  in  his  glory  before  I 
was  born." 

This  was  a  slight  exaggeration.  Mrs.  Morti- 
mer Gault  had  been  born  a  full  thirty-eight 
years  ago,  in  a  house  which  now  has  a  bakery 
beneath  and  furnished  rooms  above,  in  the  en- 
virons of  North  Beach.     It  was  quite  fitting 


HARD-PAN  3 

and  proper  that  she  should  have  first  seen  the 
light  there,  as  in  that  day  North  Beach  was 
fashionable.  But  that  this  should  have  oc- 
curred thirty-eight  years  ago  was  a  subject  she 
quietly  ignored.  She  was  still  so  effective  in 
her  dark,  quick-flashing  style,  so  much  admired 
and  so  fond  of  being  admired,  that  she  turned 
her  back  on  and  denied  the  thirty-eight  years 
whenever  she  had  the  chance. 

Her  husband  looked  at  her  with  indulgent 
and  humorous  appreciation  of  her  quickness. 

"  I  don't  see,  if  Colonel  Reed  has  a  daughter," 
he  said,  "  what  he  keeps  her  on.  She  can't  live 
on  the  memory  of  his  bonanza  glories.  The 
old  fellow  has  n't  got  a  cent  in  the  world. 
White  Pine  scooped  the  last  dollar  he  had. 
When  did  his  wife  die  ? " 

Letitia,  who  was  twelve  years  her  sister's 
junior,  and,  even  if  she  had  not  been,  would 
not  have  felt  sensitive  about  her  accumulating 
birthdays,  answered: 

"  Oh,  long  ago.  Colonel  Eeed  's  always  been 
a  widower  ever  since  I  can  remember." 

"  I  remember  hearing  about  his  wife  when  I 
was  a  boy,"  said  Mortimer.  "  She  was  a 
young  actress,  and  married  the  colonel  when 
everything  was  going  his  way.  Then  she  died 
in  a  year  or  two  of  consumption.  I  did  n't 
know  there  was  a  child." 

"  She  must  be  quite  young,  then,"  said  Maud 


4  HARD-PAN 

Gault.  "What  did  you  hear  about  her,  Le- 
titial" 

"Nothing  much;  only  that  she  was  pretty, 
and  lived  in  an  old  ramshackle  house  some- 
where across  town,  and  that  nobody  knows 
anything  about  her.  One  of  the  girls  was  talk- 
ing about  it  the  other  day  at  Mamie  Murray's 
lunch,  and  I  thought  it  was  so  funny,  every- 
body knowing  about  Colonel  Reed,  that  he 
should  have  had  a  daughter  that  none  of  us 
had  ever  heard  of.  That 's  why  I  asked  John. 
He  knows  more  of  those  queer,  left-over  people 
than  anybody  else." 

She  again  tilted  the  candle-shade  and  looked 
at  John  Gault.  For  the  first  time  since  the 
conversation  had  turned  on  Colonel  Eeed's 
daughter,  he  met  her  eyes.  His  were  brown  and 
deep-set,  and  being  near-sighted,  he  generally 
wore  a  pince-nez.  He  had  taken  this  off,  and 
looked  at  Letitia  with  his  eyes  narrowed  to 
mere  slits,  after  the  manner  of  short-sighted 
people.  Having  finished  his  coffee,  he  was 
leaning  back,  the  candle-light  striking  a  smooth 
gleam  from  his  broad  expanse  of  shirt-bosom. 
The  restless  fire  of  diamonds  broke  the  glossy 
surface,  for  John  Gault,  like  many  rich  Cali- 
fornians  of  a  passing  era,  clung  to  the  splendid 
habits  of  the  bonanza  days.  Sitting  thus,  he 
looked  a  spare,  muscular  man  verging  on  forty, 
with  dark  hair  and  an  iron-gray  mustache. 


HARD-PAN  5 

"  I  don't  know  whether  that 's  meant  to  be  a 
compliment,"  he  said,  with  the  lazy  smile  with 
which  he  generally  treated  Letitia's  sallies. 
"  Have  I  got  a  larger  collection  of  freaks  than 
most  people  1 " 

"What  did  you  hear  about  Colonel  Reed's 
daughter!"  asked  Maud  Gault. 

"  Eeally,  I  don't  recollect  anything  in  particu- 
lar," he  said ;  "  probably  just  what  Letitia  heard 
—that  she  was  pretty  and  lived  somewhere 
across  town." 

"  If  a  man  's  going  to  remember  everything 
he  hears  about  girls  that  are  pretty  and  live 
somewhere  across  town,  he  'd  have  to  get  Pro- 
fessor What's-his-name's  Memory  System  down 
by  heart,"  said  Mortimer,  pushing  back  his 
chair.  "Come,  Maud,  you  don't  want  to  sit 
here  all  night,  do  you ! " 

They  rose,  and  together,  the  rustling  ladies 
first,  passed  through  the  intervening  hall  into 
the  drawing-room  beyond.  It  was  a  warm, 
glossy,  much-upholstered  room,  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  overcrowded  cheeriness.  Lamps 
casting  halos  of  mellow  light  through  beruffled 
silk  shades  like  huge  primeval  flowers,  glowed 
from  the  corners  and  sent  glistening  rays  along 
the  leaves  of  tropical  plants.  The  ornaments 
disposed  upon  the  tables  and  mantel-shelves 
were  numerous  and  interesting  enough  to  have 
claimed  an  afternoon's  careful  attention.    There 


6  HARD-PAN 

were  mounds  of  cushions  on  the  divans,  and 
sudden  prolongations  of  the  surroundings  in 
unexpected  mirrors.  Framed  in  the  folds  of  the 
portieres  was  the  bright,  distant  picture  of  the 
deserted  dining-table,  with  its  bloom  of  candles 
and  glint  of  glass  and  silver. 

The  small  family  party  all  knew  one  another 
so  well,  and  so  constantly  met  for  these  little 
informal  dinners,  that  when  John  Gault  ex- 
cused himself  on  the  ground  of  an  evening 
engagement,  no  one  criticized  his  defection  or 
urged  him  to  stay.  Letitia,  who  had  put  on  her 
new  pink  gauze  dinner-dress  that  evening,  was 
more  hurt  by  the  fact  that  he  did  not  comment 
upon  its  splendors  than  that  he  left  so  early. 
She  was  used  to  his  unceremonious  inclusion 
of  herself  in  the  family  party,  whom  he  called 
by  their  Christian  names  and  treated  with  bro- 
therly informality. 

This  evening,  as  usual,  she  went  into  the 
hall  with  him  for  a  last  word  or  two  while  he 
put  on  his  coat.  Secretly  she  was  hoping  that 
he  would  notice  her  dress ;  for  if  Letitia  had  a 
weakness,  it  was  for  rich  apparel.  Fortunately 
she  could  indulge  it.  She  had  a  fair  fortune  in 
her  own  right,  and  being  an  orphan  who  made 
her  home  with  her  married  sister,  her  income 
was  hers  to  spend  as  she  pleased. 

Standing  under  the  hall  light,  she  regarded 
Gault  with  grave  attention  as  he  attempted, 


HARD-PAN  7 

alone  and  unaided,  to  put  on  his  coat.  Then, 
seeing  the  unequal  nature  of  the  struggle,  she 
said  suddenly,  "  Let  me  help  you,  John,"  and 
taking  the  garment  from  him,  shook  it  and  held 
it  out  to  him  by  the  collar. 

He  laughed,  and  thrusting  an  arm  into  the 
sleeve,  said  over  his  shoulder : 

"  You  're  not  only  the  most  ornamental  but 
the  most  useful  person  I  know,  Letitia." 

"Thanks,"  she  responded  sedately;  "but  I 
would  n't  have  supposed  you  thought  I  was 
so  ornamental." 

"Why  not!"  he  answered,  affecting  as  dra- 
matic a  surprise  as  was  possible  in  his  posi- 
tion, with  his  second  arm  just  thrust  into  the 
sleeve. 

"  Because  you  never  noticed  me  to-night  at 
all,"  said  Letitia,  giving  the  collar  a  settling 
jerk. 

"  Never  noticed  you  ? "  He  was  able  to  turn 
round  on  her  now,  and  regarded  her  with  exag- 
gerated astonishment.  "  What  do  you  mean  I 
I  noticed  you  more  than  I  did  any  one  else." 

"I  did  n't  mean  myself,  exactly;  I  meant 
my  gown." 

"  That  shows  how  a  feeling  silence  is  thrown 
away  on  a  woman.  I  noticed  it  a  dozen  times ; 
but  just  because  I  did  n't  say  so  you  suppose 
I  was  blind  to  it.    How  could  I  be  ? " 

He  stepped  back  and  looked  critically  at  Le- 


8  HARD-PAN 

titia  standing  where  tlie  light  of  the  hall  lamp 
fell  softly  over  her. 

"But  you  know,"  he  said,  "it  would  n't  be 
strange  for  a  man  not  to  notice  the  dress,  be- 
cause the  person  who  has  it  on  is  so  much 
better  worth  looking  at  than  any  dress." 

Letitia's  delight  at  this  compliment  could  not 
be  disguised.  She  blushed  and  tried  not  to 
smile,  and  looked  as  childishly  pleased  as  a 
woman  can  who  is  five  feet  nine  inches  high, 
and  has  the  massive  proportions  and  noble  out- 
lines of  a  Grreek  goddess. 

She  was,  in  truth,  a  fine  creature,  large,  statu- 
esque, and  handsome,  as  Californian  women 
are  handsome,  with  the  beauty  of  form  and 
color.  Viewed  critically,  her  features  were  not 
without  defects ;  but  her  figure  was  superb  in 
its  type,  her  skin  was  flawless,  and  her  natu- 
rally rich  coloring  was  still  further  intensified 
by  the  reddish  hue  that  had  been  imparted  to 
her  hair  by  some  artificial  means.  In  the  full 
panoply  of  evening  dress  there  was  something 
magnificently  vivid,  almost  startling,  about  her. 
One  could  imagine  a  stranger,  who  had  come 
suddenly  upon  her  in  a  doorway  or  on  a 
staircase,  standing  mute,  with  caught  breath, 
staring. 

To-night,  touched  into  higher  brilliancy  by 
the  new  pink  dress,  her  beauty  even  struck 
Grault's  accustomed  eye,  and  his  compliment 


HARD-PAN  9 

had  more  sincerity  in  it  than  is  usually  found 
in  those  administered  to  relations.  Then, 
amused  at  her  girlishly  naive  pleasure,  he  bade 
her  a  laughing  good  night,  and  without  waiting 
for  her  response,  opened  the  door  and  let  him- 
self out. 

The  Mortimer  Gaults  lived  in  the  newest  and 
most  fashionable  part  of  San  Francisco.  Two 
years  before  they  had  leased  one  of  the  houses 
that  have  sprung  up,  alone  or  in  groups  of 
three  or  four,  throughout  that  quarter  of  the 
city  where  Pacific  Avenue  runs  out  along  the 
edges  of  the  sand-hills.  Here  the  undulating 
lines  of  the  great  dunes,  dreaming  under  the 
ceaseless  hush,  hush,  hush  of  the  wind  sweep- 
ing through  the  rank  sea-grass,  have  been  hid- 
den under  the  march  of  progress.  Large  new 
houses,  shining  with  paint  and  bright  with 
window-boxes,  have  settled  on  the  slopes,  and 
now  hold  the  sand  down.  A  layer  of  earth  and 
a  hose  have  transformed  the  haggard  face  of 
the  dunes  into  gardens  which  would  be  a  mass 
of  vegetation  but  for  the  French  gardeners' 
restraining  shears. 

The  house  rented  by  the  Gaults,  a  solid,  pale- 
hued  building  of  the  colonial  form  of  architec- 
ture, was  large,  new,  and  imposing.  Flowers 
drooped  over  its  facade  from  many  window- 
boxes.  Its  porch  was  verdurous  with  great 
leafy  plants  growing  in  tubs  and  earthenware 


10  HARD-PAN 

pots.  In  the  front  there  was  a  close-clipped 
strip  of  lawn,  with  neat  borders  and  a  filamen- 
tosa  palm,  and  the  lower  part  of  the  bulging 
bay-window  was  hidden  by  the  close,  fine 
foliage  of  an  ivy  geranium. 

Faring  down  the  street  with  a  quick  step, 
John  Gault  passed  many  such  dwellings,  the 
homes  of  the  city's  well-to-do  and  wealthy. 
Here  and  there  an  undrawn  blind  afforded  him 
a  glimpse  of  a  glowing  interior,  where  the  tall, 
shrouded  lamp  cast  its  light  over  a  room  as 
gaily  brilliant  as  the  one  he  had  just  left.  But 
his  eye  traveled  over  the  illuminated  pane  with 
unseeing  preoccupation.  He  walked  rapidly, 
and  with  the  undeviating  glance  of  inward  re- 
flection. Once  he  stopped  at  a  corner  lamp 
and  looked  at  his  watch.  Then  he  hastened 
his  steps,  and  a  few  blocks  farther  on  boarded 
a  cross-town  car. 

The  part  of  the  city  toward  which  he  was 
going  was  of  a  very  different  aspect  and  period. 
His  car  passed  from  the  quiet  gentility  of  the 
West  Side  toward  the  hum  and  glare  of  the 
business  quarter.  It  swept  him  through  streets 
full  of  the  rank  and  ugly  sidewalk  life  of  a 
great  city  after  dark  to  where  Market  Street, 
the  town's  main  artery,  throbbed  and  roared 
with  the  traffic  of  the  night. 

The  line  he  had  taken  reached  its  terminus 
here,  and  he  alighted,  made  his  way  through 


HARD-PAN  11 

the  crowd  and  clangor  of  the  wide  thorough- 
fare, and  plunged  into  the  streets  beyond. 

Here  at  once  the  wayfarer  feels  himself  in  a 
locality  whence  prosperity  and  fashion  have 
withdrawn  themselves.  The  ill-lit  streets,  the 
small  and  squalid  shops,  the  sordid  faces  of  the 
passers-by,  tell  their  own  tale  of  a  region  fallen 
from  grace.  John  Gault  had  too  often  passed 
this  way  for  the  ruinous  aspect  of  the  surround- 
ings to  possess  any  interest  for  him.  With  a 
thin  thread  of  cigarette  smoke  streaming  out 
above  his  upturned  collar,  he  passed  on  rapidly 
through  the  patches  of  shadow  and  garish  light 
from  show-windows.  People  turned  and  looked 
at  him  sharply,  his  noticeable  figure  being  an 
unusual  one  in  that  locality.  To  one  watching 
it  might  have  seemed  that  this  curiosity  an- 
noyed him,  for  he  quickened  his  pace,  and  at 
the  first  side  street  turned  off  to  the  left. 

There  were  fewer  wayfarers  here ;  the  lamps 
were  far  apart,  and  on  either  hand  the  dark 
forms  of  huge  houses,  their  facades  showing 
only  an  occasional  light  in  an  upper  window, 
loomed  vague  and  forbidding.  The  dreariness 
of  desertion  seemed  to  hold  them  in  a  spell,  as 
they  rose,  brooding  and  black,  from  the  dimness 
of  overgrown  gardens.  This  had  been  one  of 
the  great  streets  in  San  Francisco's  splendid 
heyday.  Here  millionairedom  had  built  its 
palaces  and  held  its  revels.   John  Gault  remem- 


12  HARD-PAN 

bered  some  of  them,  and  now  his  eye  passed 
blankly  over  the  lines  of  darkened  windows 
and  the  wide  porticos  where  years  before,  on 
his  vacations  from  college,  he  had  entered  as  a 
guest. 

But  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere. 

How  strange  that  the  conversation  should 
have  taken  that  turn  at  dinner !  Could  Letitia 
have  heard  anything!  Impossible!  Even  if 
she  had,  she  was  too  simple-minded  and  direct 
to  be  so  manoeuvering.  This  was  the  seventh 
time  he  had  been  to  see  Viola  Eeed — the  sev- 
enth time  in  less  than  three  months.  What 
did  he  go  for!  He  laughed  a  little  to  himself 
at  the  question,  and  throwing  his  head  back, 
blew  a  film  of  cigarette  smoke  into  the  night. 
What  did  he  go  for?  To  pass  the  evenings, 
that  otherwise  would  have  been  idly  passed  in 
his  own  rooms,  or  dully  passed  in  society,  or 
drearily  passed  in  the  pursuit  of  amusements 
he  had  long  wearied  of,  in  the  society  of  a  girl 
who  pleased  his  critical  taste,  beguiled  him  of 
his  boredom,  and  piqued  his  interest  and  curi- 
osity. 

Yes,  that  was  the  secret  of  her  attraction  for 
him.  She  was  not  like  any  one  he  had  ever 
known  before.     She  piqued  his  curiosity. 

A  picture  of  her  rose  before  his  mental  vision, 
and  with  a  shamefaced  laugh  at  his  own  senti- 
ment, he  threw  his  cigarette   away.     Letitia 


HARD-PAN  13 

had  said  she  was  pretty.  Undoubtedly  she 
was,  but  she  was  something  more  than  pretty. 
Refined,  delicate,  poetic— there  was  no  word  that 
described  it.  If  Letitia  went  about  talking  of 
her,  other  people  would  want  to  see  her.  He 
resented  the  idea  violently,  and  felt  his  anger 
rising  at  the  thought  of  the  coarse  curiosity 
and  comment  that  would  suddenly  surround 
her.  Some  one  ought  to  stop  Letitia  from  talk- 
ing that  way. 

"  For,"  thought  John  Gault,  as  he  turned  a 
corner  and  came  within  view  of  Colonel  Reed's 
abode,  "I  am  the  prince  who  has  found  the 
Sleeping  Beauty." 

The  house,  like  many  in  that  quarter  of  the 
city,  was  detached,  and  had  once  been  a  dwell- 
ing with  pretensions  to  gentility.  Time  and 
weather  had  worked  their  will  of  it,  and  even 
under  the  kindly  veil  of  night  its  haggard  di- 
lapidation was  visible.  It  sat  back  a  few  feet 
from  the  street  in  a  square  of  garden,  where  a 
tall  dracsena  shook  its  rustling  foliage  to  every 
breeze.  There  was  a  large  flowering  jasmine- 
tree  by  the  gate,  that  spread  a  sweet  scent 
through  the  noisome  airs  of  that  old  and  ill- 
drained  quarter.  The  visitor  softly  opened  the 
gate  and  entered  up  a  pathway  flagged  with 
squares  of  black  and  white  stone  that  were 
broken  and  uneven.  From  the  front  window 
—a  wide  bay  shrouded  in  vines  —  the  light 


14  HARD-PAN 

squeezed  in  narrow  slits.  John  Gault  pulled 
the  old-fashioned  bell  and  stood  listening  to  its 
jingling  note. 

There  was  a  step  in  the  passage  within,  and 
the  light  shone  through  the  two  narrow  panes 
of  glass  that  flanked  the  front  door  on  either 
side.  A  key  turned  and  the  door  was  opened. 
In  the  aperture  Viola  Reed  stood  with  a  kero- 
sene lamp  flickering  in  her  hand.  She  held  a 
piece  of  light-colored  material  in  the  other 
hand.  As  her  glance  fell  on  the  visitor  she 
made  an  instinctive  movement  as  if  to  hide 
this. 

"Oh,  is  it  you  I"  she  said.  "Come  in.  I  'm 
glad  you  've  come !  " 

She  uttered  the  sentences  quickly,  and  was 
evidently  embarrassed.  Even  by  the  light  of 
the  smoky  lamp  Grault  could  see  that  she  had 
flushed. 

"  I  never  thought  of  your  coming  to-night," 
she  said,  as  she  turned  to  open  the  parlor  door. 
"It  's  a  great  surprise.  My  father  will  be 
delighted." 

She  held  the  lamp  up  while  the  visitor  di- 
vested himself  of  his  coat  and  hung  it  on  the 
chair  that  did  duty  as  a  hat-rack.  In  the  dim 
hallway,  with  its  walls  from  which  the  paper 
had  peeled  in  long  strips,  and  the  stairway  be- 
yond, with  the  twine  showing  through  the 
ragged  carpet,  the  man  of  the  world  in  his  well- 


HARD-PAN  15 

groomed,  well-dressed,  complacent  perfection 
of  finish,  presented  a  curiously  incongruous 
appearance. 

The  girl  opened  the  door,  and  he  followed  her 
into  the  parlor.  It  was  a  long  room,  divided 
in  the  middle  by  an  archway,  its  lower  end  now 
veiled  in  shadow.  On  a  large  table  another  lamp 
glowed,  a  bunch  of  paper  flowers  hanging  on 
one  side  of  the  globe  to  subdue  the  light.  The 
room  gave  an  impression  of  lofty  emptiness. 
The  footsteps  of  the  visitor  seemed  to  be  flung 
back  from  its  high,  bare  walls.  The  lamp 
struck  gleams  of  light  from  the  gilded  frame  of 
a  large  mirror  over  the  chimney-piece,  and  here 
and  there  caught  the  running  gold  arabesques 
which  covered  the  wall-paper.  There  were  a 
few  wicker  chairs  drawn  up  to  the  table,  which 
was  covered  with  the  litter  of  amateur  dress- 
making. In  the  single  upholstered  chair  that 
the  room  boasted  sat  Colonel  Ramsay  Reed. 

With  a  loud  exclamation  of  pleasure  the 
colonel  rose  and  greeted  his  guest.  He  was  a 
remarkable-looking  man  of  sixty-five  or  sev- 
enty, fully  six  feet  in  height,  erect,  alert,  with 
a  striking  air  of  distinction  in  his  narrow, 
hawk-featured  face,  and  a  gaunt,  angular  figure. 
His  white  hair  fiowed  nearly  to  his  shoulders, 
and  his  white  mustache  was  in  singular  con- 
trast to  the  brown  and  leathery  surface  of  his 
thin  cheeks.    He  wore  a  long  wrapper  of  inde- 


16  HARD-PAN 

terminate  hue,  patched  with  materials  of  differ- 
ent colors  and  patterns,  and  a  pair  of  old  leather 
slippers  that  slipped  off  his  heels  when  he 
walked.  In  his  suave  and  urbane  courtesy  he 
seemed  to  be  serenely  indifferent  to  the  deficien- 
cies of  his  costume,  folding  his  dressing-gown 
round  his  legs  as  he  subsided  into  his  chair 
with  the  deliberate  ease  that  a  Roman  senator 
might  have  displayed  in  the  arrangement  of 
his  toga  of  ceremony. 

His  daughter  did  not  appear  to  share  his  com- 
posure ;  she  was  nervous  and  embarrassed.  She 
swept  off  the  evidences  of  her  dressmaking  with 
a  few  rapid  movements,  and  took  them  away 
to  the  shadows  of  the  far  end  of  the  room, 
hung  another  paper  flower  over  the  blinding 
glare  of  the  second  lamp,  and,  sitting  by  the 
table,  let  her  glance  stray  furtively  about  for  fur- 
ther details  that  needed  correcting.  John  Gault, 
who  appeared  to  be  awarding  a  polite  attention 
to  the  colonel's  conversational  amenities,  was 
conscious  of  her  every  movement. 

Viola  Eeed  was  one  of  those  women  that  na- 
ture seems  to  have  intended  to  make  completely 
and  satisfyingly  beautiful,  the  intention  having 
been  changed  only  at  the  last  momenta  The 
upper  half  of  her  head  was  without  a  fault— 
the  low  forehead,  the  wonderful  hair,  thick  and 
wavy,  and  so  instinct  with  life  that  every  sepa- 
rate filament  seemed  to  stand  out  from  its  fel- 


HARD-PAN  17 

lows,  in  color  a  warm,  bright  blond,  and  with 
shorter  hairs  about  the  ears  and  temples  which 
curled  up  in  golden  threads.  In  strange  con- 
trast with  this  brilliant  hair  were  level,  dark- 
brown  eyebrows,  that  were  low  over  large  gray 
eyes.  She  had  the  same  dark-brown  lashes, 
which  grew  wide  apart  and  turned  back,  a  rare 
beauty,  and  one  which  imparts  an  expression 
of  soft,  wistful  tenderness  to  the  eyes  thus 
encircled. 

Here  Viola's  beauty  ended.  Her  other  fea- 
tures were,  at  least,  inoifensive.  She  was  tall 
and  beautifully  formed,  but  in  the  slenderest 
mold.  To  the  Californian  ideal  she  was  thin. 
But  her  movements  were  distinguished  by  a 
supple  grace  denied  to  women  of  a  more  stately 
build  and  proportion.  To-night  she  wore  a 
shirt-waist,  washed  out  from  its  original  pink 
to  a  wan  flesh-color,  and  a  scanty  black  stuff 
skirt,  belted  with  a  black  ribbon.  Gault,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  colonel,  was  aware  of  the 
stealthy  rearrangement  she  made  of  the  ribbon 
round  her  neck,  and  the  movements  of  the  in- 
vestigating hand  with  which  she  pushed  back 
her  loosened  hair-pins. 

As  was  her  custom,  she  made  little  attempt 
to  join  in  the  conversation.  The  evening  set- 
tled down  into  a  replica  of  its  predecessors. 
The  fact  that  Grault  was  becoming  a  familiar 
figure  in  the  bare  front  parlor  did  not  seem  to 


18  HARD-PAN 

abate  the  colonel's  buoyant  appreciation  of  him 
as  a  good  listener. 

The  younger  man,  with  his  glance  on  the 
floor  and  an  expression  of  polite  attention  on 
his  face,  found  himself  wondering,  with  inward 
amusement,  what  his  friends  would  say  if  they 
could  have  had  a  glimpse  of  him,  listening, 
silently  and  submissively,  to  the  reminiscences 
of  Colonel  Ramsay  Reed.  The  conjecture  called 
up  such  a  picture  of  incredulous  astonishment 
and  disbelief  that  a  smile  broke  out  on  his  lips. 
Aware  of  its  incongruity,  he  stole  a  quick,  ap- 
prehensive look  at  Viola.  She  was  watching 
him  with  a  surprise  evidently  tempered  by 
pain  at  the  thought  that  his  amusement  might 
be  evoked  by  her  father's  garrulity.  Gault's 
gravity  became  intense,  and  the  colonel,  who 
was  too  engrossed  in  the  joy  of  having  secured 
a  victim  to  notice  anything,  went  gaily  on. 
He  was  launched  on  his  favorite  subject— the 
men  he  had  assisted  to  affluence  in  the  early 
days. 

"There  's  Jerry  McCormick.  You  know 
where  he  is  now?  No  need  to  ask  any  one 
that ;  has  been  a  member  of  Congress,  can  draw 
his  check  for  a  million,  his  wife  a  leader  of  so- 
ciety, and  his  daughters  marrying  English  lords. 
You  know  them,  of  course ! " 

The  visitor  made  an  affirmative  sign,  and 
the  colonel  continued: 


HARD-PAN  19 

"Well,  I  made  that  man.  When  I  first  ran 
against  McCormick  he  was  working  in  the 
mines  up  in  Tuolumne,  with  the  water  squelch- 
ing in  his  boots.  In  those  days  a  dollar  to 
Jerry  looked  about  as  big  as  a  cart-wheel.  His 
wife  was  glad  enough  to  do  a  little  washing, 
and  his  daughter— the  youngest  ones  were  n't 
born  then,  but  the  eldest,  the  one  that  married 
the  English  lord,  was— used  to  run  round  bare- 
foot, and  bring  her  father  his  dinner  in  a  tin 
pail." 

"  I  'm  sure  she  does  n't  know  what  a  tin  pail 
is  now,"  said  Gault,  a  mental  picture  rising  in 
his  mind  of  the  magnificent  Lady  Courtley  as 
he  had  seen  her  on  her  last  visit  to  her  parents. 

"No,"  said  the  old  man;  "I  hear  she  's  one 
of  the  Vere  de  Veres.  And  I  can  remember 
her,  a  little  freckled-faced  kid  with  her  hair 
in  her  eyes,  hanging  round  the  tunnel  of  the 
Little  Bertha,  waiting  to  give  her  father  his 
dinner." 

"  Do  you  know  the  younger  McCormick  girls. 
Miss  Reed!  Lady  Courtley  was  before  your 
time,"  said  Gault,  in  an  attempt  to  draw  Viola 
into  the  conversation. 

She  looked  surprised,  and  then  gave  a  little 
laugh  and  shook  her  head. 

"  I  've  never  even  seen  them,"  she  answered. 

"  Oh,  they  don't  know  Viola, "  said  the  colonel 
—not  with  bitterness,  but  as  one  who  states  a 


20  HARD-PAN 

simple  and  natural  fact;  "the  old  woman  's 
educated  them  out  of  all  that.  But,  as  I  was 
saying,  I  made  their  father.  He  'd  managed  to 
scrape  together  a  little  pile,  put  it  all  in  a  small 
prospect,  and  lost  every  nickel.  He  was  just 
about  dead  broke,  and  came  to  me  crying— yes, 
crying— and  said,  '  Colonel  Reed,  there  's  only 
one  man  in  California  whose  advice  I  'd  follow 
and  whose  opinion  I  'd  trust,'  '  Who  's  that ! ' 
said  I,  intending  to  help  the  poor  devil  to  the 
best  of  my  ability.  '  It  's  Eamsay  Reed,'  said 
he.  '  Well,'  said  I,  '  if  you  '11  just  put  yourself 
in  my  hands,  and  do  what  I  tell  you,  I  '11  set 
you  on  your  feet.'  '  Colonel,'  said  he,  '  say  the 
word,  and  whatever  it  is,  it  goes.  You  've  got 
more  financial  ability  in  your  little  finger  than 
all  the  rest  of  'em  have  in  their  whole  bodies.' 
So  I  took  him  in  hand." 

The  colonel  paused,  a  reflective  smile  wrin- 
kling the  skin  at  the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

"  You  certainly  seem  to  have  made  a  success 
of  his  case,"  said  Grault,  feeling  that  some  com- 
ment was  expected  of  him. 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  the  colonel;  "I  may  say  a 
great  success.  The  poor  fellow's  confidence  in 
me  made  me  determined  to  do  my  best.  I  used 
to  give  him  points— those  were  the  days  when 
I  could  give  points.  Told  him  if  he  would  fol- 
low the  lead  west  of  the  Little  Bertha— people 
had  hardly  heard  of  the  Little  Bertha  then— 


HARD-PAN  21 

he  'd  strike  it.  He  was  broke,  and  I  gave  him 
the  money.  Three  months  later  he  'd  struck 
pay  dirt.  That  was  the  beginning  of  the  Al- 
cade  Mine,  but  he  did  n't  have  sense  enough  to 
hold  on  to  it,  and  sold  out  for  a  few  thousands. 
I  saw  then  that  I  'd  have  to  do  more  than  give 
him  an  occasional  boost,  and  stood  behind  him, 
off  and  on,  for  years.  Even  when  we  ran  into 
the  Virginia  City  boom  he  never  bought  with- 
out my  advice.  He  had  n't  any  discrimination. 
I  'd  just  say  to  him, '  Save  your  money  and  buy 
five  feet  next  to  the  Best  and  Belcher,'  and 
he  'd  do  what  I  said  every  time.  Without  me 
he  'd  have  been  working  in  the  mines  in  Tuo- 
lumne yet." 

In  the  absorption  of  his  recollections  the 
colonel  crossed  his  knees,  bringing  one  foot, 
with  a  torn  slipper  dropping  from  the  heel,  into 
a  position  of  prominence. 

"  Oh,  those  were  days  worth  living  in ! "  he 
said,  running  a  long,  spare  hand  through  his 
hair— "great  days!  Men  that  were  n't  grown 
then  don't  know  what  life  is.  I  meet  Jerry 
sometimes,  but  we  don't  talk  much  about  old 
times.  He  knows  that  he  owes  everything  to 
me,  and  it  goes  against  the  grain  for  him  to 
acknowledge  it.  I  hear  his  daughters  are 
handsome  girls." 

"  Perhaps— I  don't  know,"  said  Gault,  recall- 
ing the  occasions  when   he  had   sat  next  to 


22  HARD-PAN 

the  Miss  McCormicks  at  dinners,  and  suffered 
exceedingly  in  the  effort  known  as  "  making 
conversation." 

"  I  heard  that  they  were  fine,  handsome  girls, 
large,  and  with  black  hair  like  their  mother. 
She  was  a  beauty  in  her  day—  a  hot-tempered 
Irish  girl  that  Jerry  married  from  the  wash- 
tub.  The  youngest  daughter  is  about  Viola's 
age— twenty-three." 

John  G-ault  turned  and  looked  at  Viola  with 
some  surprise. 

"  You  thought  I  was  younger,  did  n't  you  I " 
she  said,  smiling.     "  Everybody  does." 

He  was  about  to  answer  when  the  colonel 
once  more  took  up  the  thread  of  his  reminis- 
cences. 

"  Maroney  was  down  then— 'way  down ;  not 
even  on  the  lowest  rung  of  the  ladder  —  he 
was  n't  on  the  ladder  at  all.  I  gave  him  the 
first  lift  he  had.  No  one  would  look  at  Maro- 
ney in  those  days.  He  was  a  thin,  consump- 
tive-looking fellow,  full  of  crazy  schemes,  for- 
ever coming  to  you  and  borrowing  money  for 
some  wild-cat  stock  that  was  n't  worth  the 
paper  it  was  printed  on.  I  took  a  fancy  to 
him,  and  every  dollar  he  made  was  through  my 
help  and  advice.  It  was  when  I  had  my  offices 
on  Montgomery  Street,  and  he  'd  have  a  way 
of  dropping  in  about  lunch-time  and  hanging 
round  looking  poor  and  sick.    I  used  to  take  him 


HARD-PAN  23 

out  to  lunch,  and  give  him  a  square  meal  and 
a  few  points  that  he  'd  sense  enough  to  follow. 
He  was  n't  like  Jerry ;  he  was  smart.  Why,  I 
almost  fed  that  man  for  years.  When  he  'd 
get  down  on  his  luck— and  he  was  always 
doing  that— I  'd  say,  'You  know,  when  you 
want,  my  check-book  's  at  your  disposal.'  And 
it  was,  more  times  than  I  can  remember." 

The  colonel  paused,  smiling  at  his  thoughts. 
The  visitor,  who  had  been  looking  idly  on  the 
ground,  raised  his  eyes  and  let  them  dwell  in 
curious  scrutiny  upon  the  old  man's  profile,  cut 
like  a  cameo  against  the  dim  walls  with  their 
fine  gold  traceries.  John  Gault,  like  all  Cali- 
fornians,  knew  every  vicissitude  in  the  life  of 
Adolphus  Maroney,  one  of  the  great  bonanza 
kings,  a  man  whose  career  was  quoted  as  an 
example  of  what  could  be  done  by  brains  and 
energy  in  the  California  of  the  Comstock  era. 

Wondering,  as  he  had  done  many  times 
before,  what  Viola  thought  of  her  father's 
vainglorious  imaginings,  he  turned  now  and 
suddenly  looked  at  her.  She  was  sitting  with 
her  elbow  on  the  table  and  her  chin  resting  in 
the  palm  of  her  hand.  Her  eyes  were  on  the 
colonel,  and  her  expression  was  one  of  apprecia- 
tive interest.  It  was  possible  that  she  believed 
in  him,  absolutely  and  unquestionably.  Yet 
her  face,  in  its  placid,  restful  gravitj^,  gave  no 
clue  to  the  thoughts  within.     She  was  not  to 


24  HARD-PAN 

be  read  by  every  casual  comer.  Even  the 
practised  eye  of  the  man  of  much  worldly 
experience  was  baffled  by  the  quiet  reserve 
of  this  young  girl  who  was  nearly  half  his 
age. 

"I  have  n't  seen  Maroney  for  nearly  eight 
or  nine  years,"  continued  the  colonel.  "The 
last  time  it  was  in  the  lobby  of  the  Palace.  He 
was  with  some  capitalists  from  England,  with 
a  millionaire  or  two  from  New  York  thrown  in. 
He  saw  me  and  looked  uncomfortable,  but  he 
shook  hands  and  introduced  me.  I  got  away 
as  quickly  as  I  could.  I  did  n't  want  to  em- 
barrass him." 

"Why  should  you  embarrass  him?"  asked 
Viola. 

The  colonel  looked  at  Gault,  and  gave  the 
forbearing  laugh  of  the  man  who  treats  with 
good-humored  tolerance  the  ignorance  of  the 
woman. 

"Why,  he  was  always  uneasy  for  fear  I  'd 
give  away  the  fact  that  it  was  I  who  made  his 
money  for  him.  But,  God  bless  my  soul !  "  said 
the  old  man,  throwing  back  his  head  and  going 
off  into  a  sonorous  laugh,  "he  need  n't  be 
afraid.  I  would  n't  rob  him  of  any  of  his 
glory.  Only  I  took  it  pretty  hard,  when  Mrs. 
Maroney  was  here  last  winter,  that  she  did  n't 
go  out  of  her  way  to  be  kind  to  you." 

Viola  gave  a  little  exclamation,  Gault  could 


HARD-PAN  25 

not  make  out  whether  of  annoyance  or  protest. 
That  the  colonel  should  have  expected  his 
daughter  to  be  the  object  of  Mrs.  Maroney's 
attention  and  patronage  was  only  another  evi- 
dence of  his  painful  self-delusion.  Mrs.  Maro- 
ney  was  a  lady  who  aspired  to  storm  the 
fashionable  citadels  of  New  York  and  London, 
and  troubled  herself  little  with  those  of  whom 
she  could  make  no  practical  use  in  the  cam- 
paign. 

"You  're  unjust  to  Mrs.  Maroney,"  Viola 
said  gently,  and  rather  weariedly,  the  visitor 
thought;  "she  was  only  here  for  two  months, 
and  she  had  quantities  of  friends  to  see  and 
people  to  entertain." 

"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  answered  the  old 
man,  "  that 's  just  your  amiable  way  of  looking 
at  it.  She  was  like  her  husband— she  wanted 
to  forget." 

He  turned  his  eyes,  still  bright  under  their 
thick  white  brows,  upon  the  younger  man,  and 
looking  at  him  with  an  expression  of  mingled 
pride  and  patience,  said : 

"  That  is  the  way  with  the  Californians. 
Once  fall,  and  the  procession  passes  you,  and 
the  men  that  were  beside  you  don't  wait  to 
turn  and  see  where  you  dropped.  You  stay 
where  you  fall  and  you  watch  the  others  sweep 
on.     That 's  what  I  have  done." 

"  Don't  talk  that  way,  father,"  said  Viola ; 


26  HARD-PAN 

"  Mr.  Gault  will  think  you  feel  unhappy  about 
it." 

The  old  man  smiled,  and  leaning  forward, 
clasped  her  hand  and  held  it. 

"  Mr.  G-ault,"  he  said,  with  quite  a  grand  air, 
"knows  better  than  that.  The  opinions  of 
other  people  don't  affect  our  happiness.  I  don't 
resent  the  prosperity  of  my  old  mates,  nor  feel 
any  discouragement  at  our  present— er— tem- 
porary embarrassments." 

Viola  stirred  uneasily,  and  said  quickly : 

"  No— no ;  of  course  not.    Why  should  you  ? " 

John  Grault  rose  here,  and  she  rose,  too.  Her 
embarrassment,  which  had  vanished  during  the 
evening's  conversation,  now  returned,  and  she 
plucked  nervously  at  the  paper  flower  on  the 
lamp-globe.  It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was 
anxious  for  him  to  go. 

With  the  colonel  it  was  otherwise.  Eising 
and  standing  upright  in  the  patched  limpness 
of  his  dressing-gown,  he  affected  incredulity  at 
the  thought  that  his  guest  contemplated  such 
an  early  departure.  Then,  being  politely  as- 
sured that  this  was  unavoidable,  and  that,  for 
the  matter  of  that,  it  was  now  close  upon 
eleven,  he  urged  him  to  repeat  the  visit  at  an 
early  date. 

"  We  are  always  here,  Viola  and  I,"  he  said. 
"  We  have  not  many  engagements,  as  you  see 
—just  a  friend  here  and  there.    But  we  value 


HARD-PAN  27 

our  friends  more  highly  than  the  people  do  who 
count  them  by  dozens." 

He  had  followed  John  Gault  out  into  the 
hall,  and  from  here  his  voice  called : 

"The  lamp,  Viola.  Mr.  G-ault  can't  put  on 
his  overcoat  in  the  dark." 

She  came  out  quickly,  carrying  the  smaller  of 
the  two  lamps,  divested  once  more  of  its  paper- 
flower  shade.  To  give  a  better  light  she  held 
it  up  and  looked  at  him,  smiling  a  little  from 
under  the  halo  made  by  her  hair.  In  answer 
to  his  good  night  she  gave  him  her  hand,  which 
he  pressed  with  a  warm,  strong  grip. 

As  he  went  down  the  few  steps  from  the 
porch  the  colonel  stood  in  the  doorway,  his 
figure  in  sharp  silhouette  against  the  light 
within. 

"  Don't  be  a  month  finding  your  way  down 
here  again,"  he  said.  "  People  say  it  's  out  of 
the  beaten  tracks,  but  we  prefer  it  to  any 
other  locality  in  the  city.  Viola  and  I  like  the 
old  associations,  and  I  've  struck  my  roots  here 
too  deep  to  have  them  pulled  up.  Well,  good 
night !     So  long !  " 

The  door  closed,  and  as  John  G-ault  opened 
the  gate,  the  light  vanished  from  the  two  long 
panes  of  glass  that  edged  it  on  both  sides,  and 
gleamed  out  through  the  cracks  and  crevices 
between  the  blinds  of  the  bay-window. 

It  was  a  warm  night,  soft  and  still,  and  Gault 


28  HARD-PAN 

decided  to  walk.  With  his  head  bent  down  he 
walked  slowly,  striking  the  cracks  in  the  pave- 
ment with  the  tip  of  his  cane.  From  small 
gardens  still  tended  and  watered  in  this  un- 
kempt wilderness  of  brick  and  stucco,  whiffs  of 
delicate  fragrance  drifted  out  across  the  pave- 
ments, only  to  be  stifled  by  the  sickly  odors 
that  rose  from  the  open  sewer-mouths. 

When  he  turned  into  the  wide  avenues  where 
the  old  mansions  stood,  the  air  was  fresher  and 
the  silence  heavier.  Desertion  and  darkness 
seemed  to  claim  as  their  own  this  relic  of  a  life 
that  had  already  passed  away.  The  dim,  bulky 
shapes  of  the  great  houses  stood  back  from  the 
street,  sullen,  black,  and  morose,  like  the  visions 
in  a  dream.  Vines  shrouded  their  solemn 
forms,  and  here  and  there  clung  to  the  support 
of  an  iron  balcony  rail,  hanging  down  in  the 
darkness  like  a  veil  that  swayed  and  whispered 
in  the  breeze.  In  one  porch  a  hall  lamp  was 
lit,  and  cast  a  pale  and  faltering  light  over  an 
entrance  that  looked  as  full  of  menace  and 
evil  mystery  as  the  opening  to  some  bandit's 
cavern. 

But  Gault  passed  their  iron  gates,  high  be- 
tween supporting  pillars,  without  looking  up. 
A  man's  dreams  held  him  in  a  trance-like  rev- 
erie. A  man's  perplexities  destroyed  the  con- 
tent of  many  serenely  selfish  years.  He  had 
come  to  what  seemed  to  him  the  fateful  mo- 


HARD-PAN  29 

ment  of  his  destiny.  Had  lie  been  a  younger 
man  he  would  have  said  with  a  rush  of  reckless 
ecstasy,  "  I  love  her ! "  Now,  walking  slowly 
home  under  the  solemn  stars,  he  queried  to 
himself : 

"  Shall  I  let  myself  love  her  f    Do  I  dare  I " 


II 


IETITIA'S  surprise  at  the  discovery  that 
^  Colonel  Reed  had  an  unknown  daughter 
was  an  unconscious  compliment  to  the  promi- 
nence and  conspicuousness  stiU  enjoyed  by 
that  gentleman. 

Hundreds  of  men  who  had  made  their  for- 
tunes in  the  great  days  of  the  Comstock,  and 
lost  them  in  the  depression  that  followed,  had 
daughters  and  sons  that  the  friends  of  their 
prosperity  neither  knew  nor  cared  about.  The 
Calif ornian  is  shy  of  all  sad,  unsuccessful  things. 
Failures  in  the  race  in  which  so  many  won  a 
prize  were  quickly  forgotten,  and  crept  away  to 
hide  their  chagrin  in  distant  quarters  of  the 
city  or  in  the  smaller  towns.  The  procession 
had  passed  them  by,  and  men  who  had  been 
underlings  when  they  were  kings  reigned  in 
their  stead.  Even  their  names  were  no  longer 
heard,  and  their  children  grew  up  separated  by 
the  chasm  of  poverty  and  obscurity  from  the 
children  of  their  old  mates. 

That  Colonel  Reed  had  not  been  overlooked 


HARD-PAN  31 

was  partly  accidental  and  partly  owing  to  his 
inability  to  realize  that  such  a  state  of  affairs 
could  be  anything  but  a  public  misfortune. 
The  colonel  had  the  distinction  of  having  col- 
lapsed in  a  most  tremendous  and  complete 
manner,  and  he  was  proud  of  it.  His  case  was 
quoted  to  inquiring  tourist  and  ambitious  na- 
tive as  a  star  example  of  money-getting  and 
money-losing  in  the  State  of  California.  His 
passage  from  affluence  to  poverty  was  still  a 
story  worth  telling  and  hearing.  It  was  all  in 
the  superlative  degree,  for  the  colonel  had 
never  done  anything  by  halves.  His  prosperity 
had  been  as  extravagantly  splendid  as  his 
adversity  was  characteristically  complete. 

He  had  made  the  bulk  of  his  fortune  in  those 
years  of  the  fat  kine  from  1870  to  1875.  Be- 
fore that  he  had  been  well-to-do,  as  every  man 
could  be  in  the  San  Francisco  that  developed 
between  the  days  when  "  the  water  came  up  to 
Montgomery  Street"  and  the  inauguration  of 
the  Comstock  boom.  He  had  been  a  figure  in 
the  city  from  the  earliest  times,  had  known 
San  Francisco  when  it  was  a  straggling  line  of 
houses  edging  the  muddy  shores  of  the  bay, 
with  a  trail  winding  through  the  chaparral  over 
the  dunes  to  the  Mission  Dolores.  He  had 
climbed  the  lupine-covered  slopes  of  what  is  now 
California  Street,  and  looked  down  on  the  hun- 
dreds of  deserted  ships  that  lay  rotting  in  the 


32  HARD-PAN 

cove.  He  had  seen  the  city  of  tents  swept  by 
fire,  and  the  city  of  wood  follow  it  in  a  few 
months.  He  had  been  one  of  those  who  had 
held  a  ticket  for  the  Jenny  Lind  Theater  on  the 
night  it  was  burned  down.  He  had  witnessed 
the  trial  of  Jansen's  assailants,  and  had  served 
on  the  two  great  Vigilance  Committees,  and 
from  the  windows  of  Fort  Gnnnybags  had 
seen  Casey  and  Cora  go  to  their  last  accounts. 

Of  his  journey  across  the  isthmus  in  '49  he 
could  tell  thrilling  stories.  Only  those  of  iron 
physique  and  reckless  courage  had  the  hardi- 
hood to  accomplish  the  trip.  The  weak  in 
health  and  feeble  in  spirit  were  left  behind  at 
the  Chagres  or  turned  back  at  Panama.  The 
fittest  survived  to  become  those  giants  of  the 
far  West,  the  California  pioneers.  Of  these 
the  colonel  had  been  a  leading  figure.  Blood 
ran  red  in  the  veins  in  those  days,  and  ginger 
was  hot  in  the  mouth.  The  present  was  too 
full  and  tumultuous  to  allow  of  even  the  briefest 
glimpse  of  the  future.  He  became  a  part  of 
the  seething  life  of  the  city,  felt  its  heart-beats 
as  his  own,  lived  greatly  as  it  lived,  loved, 
hated,  sinned,  and  rejoiced  with  it. 

He  often  said  afterward  that  at  this  period 
of  his  life  money  was  his  last  consideration. 
There  was  too  much  outside  to  make  the 
question  of  sordid  gain  an  engrossing  one. 
The  pecuniary  side  of  things  was  never  one 


HARD-PAN  33 

that  had  bothered  the  colonel  much.  And,  true 
to  the  old  adage,  Fortune  knocked  at  the  door 
of  him  who  seemed  most  indifferent  to  her. 
His  riches  came  suddenly.  It  was  toward  the 
seventies,  when  the  Comstock  was  pouring  its 
streams  of  wealth  into  hundreds  of  purses. 
The  colonel  held  his  open  and  it  was  filled.  It 
was  dazzling,  wonderful,  bewildering.  His  for- 
tune rose  by  bounds  that  he  could  hardly 
follow.  The  figures  of  it  seemed  to  grow  over- 
night. In  the  wild  exhilaration  of  the  period 
he  pressed  his  luck  with  unvarying  success.  He 
became  intoxicated,  the  fever  of  money-getting 
seized  him,  and  he  believed  equally  in  his  star  as 
a  man  of  destiny  and  his  genius  as  a  financier. 
Such  a  sudden  and  unexpected  rise  to  opu- 
lence might  have  dazed  another  man,  but  the 
colonel  rose  to  it  like  a  race-horse  to  the  spur. 
He  was  born  with  a  natural  instinct  for  luxury. 
Formerly  he  had  been  merely  one  of  a  thou- 
sand good  fellows.  Now  he  became  a  prince. 
Nothing  was  too  whimsically  extravagant  for  the 
pioneer  who  had  crossed  the  isthmus  in  1849. 
He  could  be  traced  by  the  trail  of  squandered 
money.  He  bought  a  country  place  near  San 
Mateo,  raised  a  palace  on  it,  and  entertained 
such  celebrities  as  then  drifted  to  California  in 
a  way  that  made  them  tell  astonishing  stories 
of  the  "  Arabian  Nights "  existence  of  the  bo- 
nanza kings.     In  the  heyday  of  his  prosperity 


34  HARD-PAN 

he  had  married  a  young  actress,  who  had  en- 
joyed the  splendors  of  her  sudden  elevation  for 
three  years,  and  had  then  died,  leaving  her 
husband  but  one  legacy— a  baby  daughter. 

Very  shortly  after  her  death  the  colonel's  for- 
tunes began  to  decline.  He  put  on  a  bold  front 
and  was  more  lavish  in  his  expenditures  than 
ever,  for  his  belief  in  himself  was  unshakable. 
Then  stories  of  his  reverses  got  abroad,  and 
people  said  the  whole  brief  span  of  his  glory  had 
been  a  piece  of  pure  and  unmerited  luck ;  as  a 
financier  he  had  no  ability.  The  misfortune 
which  attended  all  his  later  investments  seemed 
to  prove  this  assertion.  His  money  melted  like 
wax  before  fire.  He  bought  largely  of  land 
about  South  Park  and  Rincon  Hill  when  it  was 
at  its  highest,  refused  to  sell  out,  and  saw  the 
tide  of  popularity  move  to  the  other  side  of 
the  city,  leaving  him  overweighted  with  real 
estate  upon  which  he  could  not  pay  the  taxes. 
He  mortgaged  it  to  its  full  value,  speculated 
with  the  money,  and  lost  it.  Ten  years  after 
his  wife's  death  he  was  ruined.  Twenty  years 
after  saw  him  living  in  the  house  near  South 
Park,  the  sole  possession  left  him. 

The  colonel  took  his  defeat  bravely.  He  held 
his  head  as  high  as  ever  and  accepted  patron- 
age from  no  man.  When  some  one  suggested 
that  he  should  apply  for  aid  to  the  Society  of 
Pioneers   he  looked   as  haughtily   amazed   as 


HARD-PAN  35 

though  they  had  told  him  to  stand  and  beg  on 
the  corner  of  Kearney  and  Sutter  streets.  Fate 
had  forced  him  into  the  little  house  on  the  far 
side  of  town,  but  that  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  remain  hidden  there.  Nearly  every  day 
he  could  be  seen  striding  down  Montgomery 
Street  and  mingling  with  the  world  of  men 
where  he  had  once  been  a  leading  figure.  He 
seemed  to  feel  no  shame  on  the  score  of  his  old 
clothes  turning  gi'een  about  the  shoulders,  and 
greeted  his  comrades,  now  lords  of  the  street, 
with  a  cheery  word  and  a  wave  of  his  hand  to 
his  hat-brim. 

He  always  had  a  busy  air  as  of  the  man  of 
affairs.  Men  who  did  not  know  him  well  won- 
dered what  scheme  he  had  on  hand  that  caused 
him  so  much  hurry  and  preoccupation.  But 
there  was  no  scheme.  It  was  only  the  colonel's 
way  of  defying  destiny  and  satisfying  the  thirst 
and  longing  for  the  old  excitement  that  carried 
him  back  to  the  scenes  of  his  triumphs.  He 
hung  round  Pine  Street  a  good  deal,  telling 
those  who  would  listen  to  him  stories  of  the 
early  days  —  of  the  men  he  had  made,  and  of 
the  women  who  had  been  the  reigning  beauties. 
Sometimes  he  was  accorded  an  amused  atten- 
tion, for  he  could  be  excellent  company  when 
he  chose,  and  many  of  his  stories  of  the  ups 
and  downs  of  1868  and  1870  had  become  classics. 

There  was  just  one  subject  upon  which,  in 


36  HARD-PAN 

his  Montgomery  Street  peregrinations,  he  pre- 
served silence.  This  was  his  daughter.  He 
said  to  himself,  with  a  sudden  squaring  of  his 
gaunt  shoulders,  that  he  only  mentioned  her 
to  his  intimates,  and  as  his  intimates  existed 
mainly  in  his  own  imagination,  Viola  Reed's 
name  was  almost  unknown. 

John  Grault,  who  belonged  to  a  later  era  of 
California's  prosperity  than  the  colonel,  had 
heard  that  there  was  such  a  person,  but  had 
never  seen  her.  He  did  not  fraternize  with  the 
old  man,  whom  he  regarded  as  a  painful  land- 
mark in  the  city's  record  of  blighted  hopes  and 
ruined  careers.  Like  many  of  his  kind,  he  had 
an  intense,  selfish  dislike  for  all  that  played 
upon  his  sympathies  or  moved  him  to  an 
uncomfortable  and  discomposing  pity. 

One  afternoon  in  the  past  winter  he  had  gone 
across  town  to  South  Park  to  see  some  houses 
left  him  by  his  father,  for  which  he  had  re- 
ceived a  reasonable  offer.  On  the  way  home, 
passing  through  one  of  the  small  cross-streets 
that  connect  the  larger  thoroughfares,  he  had 
encountered  Colonel  Reed  and  a  lady.  He 
would  have  passed  them  with  the  ordinary 
salutation,  had  not  the  lady,  who  had  been 
gazing  into  the  wayside  gardens,  turned  her 
head  as  he  approached  and  looked  indifferently 
at  him  with  what  he  thought  were  the  most 
beautiful  eyes  he  had  ever  seen. 


HARD-PAN  37 

He  stopped  and  greeted  the  colonel  with  the 
polite  friendliness  to  be  expected  of  wayfarers 
who  encounter  one  another  in  such  distant 
localities.  The  colonel,  who  was  always  child- 
ishly flattered  by  the  notice  of  well-known  men, 
was  expansive,  and,  after  a  few  moments  of 
casual  talk,  introduced  the  younger  man  to  his 
daughter.  Then  they  walked  together  to  the 
old  man's  house,  which  was  some  little  distance 
away.  The  colonel,  stopping  at  the  gate,  in- 
vited the  stranger  in.  John  Gault  noticed  that 
the  girl  did  not  second  the  invitation,  and  ex- 
cused himself  on  the  ground  of  pressing  busi- 
ness. But  the  colonel,  who  had  never  got  over 
the  hospitable  habits  of  his  leaux  jours,  urged 
him  to  come  some  evening. 

"Viola,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling  proudly 
on  his  daughter,  "  will  be  glad  to  see  you,  too. 
She  's  the  housewife  —  runs  everything,  myself 
included." 

Thus  appealed  to,  she  added  her  invitation 
to  her  father's,  and  Gault  said  he  would  come. 

As  he  walked  away,  he  wondered  if  she 
wanted  him  to  come.  It  had  seemed  to  him  as 
if  she  had  spoken  under  pressure  and  reluc- 
tantly, though  she  had  been  perfectly  polite. 
But  it  was  impossible  to  tell  what  a  woman 
thought,  or  when  she  was  pleased  or  displeased, 
and  the  next  week  he  went. 

Three  months  had  passed  since  then.    The 


38  HARD-PAN 

visit  had  been  repeated  many  times,  each  time 
under  almost  exactly  similar  circumstances. 
Evening  after  evening  Glault  had  listened  to 
the  colonel,  wondering  why  he  came,  why  he 
subjected  himself  to  this  absurd  imposition, 
why  he  sat  meek  and  generally  mute  under 
the  conversational  assaults  of  the  garrulous 
old  man.  And  yet,  the  day  after  his  seventh 
visit,  he  sat  in  his  private  of&ce  wondering 
how  soon  he  could  go  again  to  the  little  house 
near  South  Park  without  causing  surprise  to 
its  inmates  or  breaking  the  rules  of  conven- 
tionality and  deliberation  that  governed  his  life. 

In  the  midst  of  his  cogitations  the  door  was 
opened  by  one  of  his  clerks,  who  acquainted 
him  with  the  fact  that  Colonel  Reed  was  with- 
out and  wanted  to  see  him. 

The  announcement  came  upon  him  so  unex- 
pectedly that  his  color  rose,  and  it  was  with  an 
effort  that  he  composed  his  face  to  greet  the  vis- 
itor. A  disturbing  presentiment  of  something 
unpleasant  seized  upon  him.  Never  before  had 
Colonel  Eeed  entered  or  suggested  entering  his 
office.  "What  does  the  old  man  want?"  he 
thought  testily,  as  he  bade  the  clerk  show  him  in. 

A  moment  later  the  colonel  entered.  He 
was  suave  and  smiling.  There  was  nothing 
of  the  broken  financier,  the  ruined  million- 
aire, in  his  buoyant  and  almost  patronizing 
manner.     His  old  black  coat,  faded  and  many 


HARD-PAN  39 

years  behind  the  mode,  but  well  brushed  and 
carefully  mended,  was  buttoned  up  closely,  and 
still  sat  upon  his  thin  but  sinewy  figure  with 
something  of  its  old-time  elegance.  In  one 
hand  he  carried  a  little  black  lacquer  cane. 

Sitting  down  opposite  John  Gault,  where 
the  light  of  the  long  window  fell  full  upon 
his  face,  he  had  all  the  assurance  of  manner 
of  a  man  whose  bonanza  has  not  become  a 
memory  and  a  dream. 

"  I  was  going  by,  and  I  thought  I  'd  drop  in 
and  pass  the  time  of  day,"  he  said.  "  Things 
are  n't  as  lively  with  me  just  now  as  they  have 
been.    It 's  an  off  season." 

"  It 's  that  with  most  of  us,"  said  the  other, 
regarding  him  intently  and  wondering  what  he 
had  come  for. 

"  All  in  the  same  coffin,  are  we  1 "  said  the 
colonel,  airily.  "I  'm  generally  on  the  full 
jump  down  here  of  a  morning ;  but  lately—" 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  flung  out  his 
hands  with  a  gesture  of  hopeless  acquiescence 
in  unmerited  bad  luck. 

"You  're  fortunate,"  said  Gault,  "to  have 
something  to  be  on  the  full  jump  about.  We 
find  things  pretty  slow." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  in  comparison  with  the  past," 
assented  the  old  man.  "  Slow?  Slow  is  not  the 
word.  Dead,  my  dear  friend !  San  Francisco  is 
a  dead  city— dead  as  Pompeii." 


40  HARD-PAN 

"  Well,  not  quite  as  bad  as  that,"  said  Gault, 
laughing  in  spite  of  himself. 

"  How  should  you  be  able  to  judge  ?  "  retorted 
the  colonel.  "  You  were  n't  thought  of  when 
we  old  fellows  were  laying  out  the  town.  There 
was  more  life  here  in  a  minute  then  than  there 
is  now  in  a  week.  Then  Portsmouth  Square 
was  the  plaza  and  the  center  of  the  city, 
with  a  line  of  French  boot-blacks  along  the 
lower  side.  We  used  to  try  our  French  on  'em 
every  time  we  got  a  shine.  And  Lord !  what 
smart  fellows  they  were,  and  how  much  money 
they  made ! " 

"  So  I  've  heard,"  murmured  Gault. 

"  And  when  I  think  of  this  street  later  on, 
this  street  alone,  in,  say,  '70— how  it  boiled 
and  bubbled  and  sizzled  with  life !  Those  were 
the  days  to  live  in !  " 

"  Undoubtedly,"  acquiesced  the  listener.  He 
was  afraid  the  colonel  had  only  come  to  con- 
tinue the  reminiscences  on  the  historic  ground 
of  his  early  gains  and  losses,  and  he  ran  over 
in  his  mind  the  excuses  he  could  use  to  politely 
and  speedily  get  rid  of  the  old  man. 

But  the  colonel,  it  appeared,  had  another  end 
in  view. 

"  I  don't  find,  however,"  he  continued,  "  that 
my  full- jumping  pays  very  well.  I  've  got  the 
energy  and  the  savvy,  but  the  luck  is  n't  with 
me.    And  I  'm  too  old  a  Californian  not  to 


HARD-PAN  41 

know  there  's  no  good  bucking  against  bad 
luck." 

He  paused  and  tapped  with  the  tip  of  his 
cane  against  the  side  of  the  desk,  evidently  ex- 
pecting his  companion  to  speak.  This  time, 
however,  Gault  vouchsafed  no  reply,  but  sat 
looking  at  him  with  a  steady  and  somewhat 
frowning  intentness. 

The  colonel  continued,  nothing  abashed : 

"  I  've  run  into  bad-luck  belts  before,  but 
never  as  wide  a  one  as  this.  It 's  about  the 
biggest  I  've  struck  yet,  and  I  've  had  some  ex- 
perience. Not  that  it 's  knocked  me  out,"  he 
said,  looking  up  and  speaking  with  quick, 
genuine  earnestness — "don't  imagine  that." 

"  Nothing  is  farther  from  my  mind,"  said 
Gault;  for  the  old  man's  look  demanded  an 
answer. 

"  For  an  old-timer  like  me,  privations,  misfor- 
tunes, poverty,  don't  matter.  We  pioneers  who 
came  round  the  isthmus  and  across  the  plains 
are  n't  afraid  of  a  little  more  roughing  it  to  fin- 
ish up  on.  A  day  without  dinner  don't  frighten 
us,  and  we  don't  put  our  fingers  in  our  mouths 
and  cry  because  we  have  n't  got  sheets  to  our 
beds  or  fires  in  our  stoves.  But  when  you  've 
women  in  your  corral  it 's  different— especially 
women  that  have  n't  always  seen  the  rough 
side  of  things." 

"  Of  course  it  makes  a  difference,"  the  other 


42  HARD-PAN 

said,  to  fill  up  the  colonel's  second  and  more 
persistent  pause. 

"  Well,  that 's  how  it  is  with  me.  If  it  was 
only  myself  I  'd  not  think  twice  of  it.  But 
I  have  to  consider  my  daughter.  It  's  not 
the  same  with  her.  During  her  childhood  she 
had  every  luxury,  but  lately  I  've  not  been 
able  to  give  her  all  that  I  'd  like  to,  though,  of 
course,  she  's  never  really  suffered.  And  just 
now  my  affairs  are  in  such  a  devil  of  a  tangle 
that— well,  I  was  going  to  ask  you  if  you  could 
oblige  me  with  a  temporary  loan— just  a  trifle 
to  tide  us  over  this  spell  of  bad  weather— say 
fifty  dollars." 

The  colonel  looked  into  the  younger  man's 
face  quite  unembarrassed,  his  old  countenance 
still  preserving  its  expression  of  debonair  self- 
satisfaction.  The  money  in  his  hand,  he  gave 
it  a  slight  clink,  and  then  dropped  it  into  a 
worn  leather  purse  with  a  clasp  that  snapped, 
and  said  gaily : 

"This  is  the  best  medicine  for  low  spirits. 
Not  that  mine  are  low— no,  sir ;  it  takes  more 
than  a  temporary  shortness  of  funds  to  knock 
out  a  pioneer  of  '49.  Whether  it 's  champagne 
or  beer  or  water,  there  's  no  difference  when  it 
comes  to  quenching  your  thirst,  and  at  my  age 
that 's  all  you  want  to  drink  for." 

"  You  're  a  better  philosopher  than  most  of 
the  pioneers,"  said  Gaalt,  feeling  the  embar- 


HARD-PAN  43 

rassment  that  the  old  man  seemed  so  compla- 
cently free  from. 

"  Philosopher ! "  said  the  other,  rising.  "  Why, 
my  dear  boy,  I  could  found  a  school  of  philoso- 
pliy_only  where  would  the  pupils  come  from  ? 
No,  no ;  philosophy  would  n't  pay  in  Califor- 
nia; too  much  blue  sky  and  sunshine  here. 
Well,  when  are  we  going  to  see  you  again? 
Soon— don't  forget  that.  Viola  and  I  have  n't 
many  friends— just  an  odd  one,  like  yourself, 
here  and  there.  Viola  does  n't  go  much  on  so- 
ciety, and  so  we  let  the  old  crowd  drop ;  and 
we  're  not  sorry,  not  sorry— too  many  tares  in 
the  wheat.  What  old  Solomon  said  about  a 
dinner  of  herbs  and  good  company  being  bet- 
ter than  a  stalled  ox  in  a  wide  house  with  a 
brawling  woman— was  n't  that  it?— was  right. 
He  was  a  great  old  chap,  Solomon!  Brains 
and  experience— that 's  a  combination  that  's 
hard  to  beat." 

They  moved  toward  the  door  together,  and 
here  the  colonel  turned  on  his  friend  for  a  last 
good-by. 

"  Well,  so  long,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand 
and  smiling  on  the  younger  man  with  a  bland 
benignity  of  aspect  that  had  in  it  something 
paternally  patronizing.  "  Don't  forget  that  we 
expect  you  soon.  We  're  always  at  home  in  the 
evenings,  and  always  glad  to  see  our  friends— 
our  real  friends." 


44  HARD-PAN 

When  he  had  gone,  Gault  went  to  the  win- 
dow of  the  outer  office  and  stood  there  watch- 
ing him.  The  faded  old  hat,  shadowing  the 
fringe  of  white  hair,  towered  over  the  heads  of 
the  hurrying  men  who  passed  in  two  streams 
up  and  down  the  street. 

Gault  stood  gazing  till  the  tall  figure  passed 
out  of  sight.  When  he  turned  back  from  the 
window  his  clerks  noticed  that  he  looked 
moodily  preoccupied. 

Five  days  after  this  the  colonel  appeared 
again.  He  was  urbane,  affable,  and  easy  as  an 
old  shoe,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  king  honoring  a 
faithful  servant,  borrowed  thirty  dollars  more. 

This  was  on  Saturday.  On  Sunday  after- 
noon Gault,  who  had  passed  a  restless  night, 
resolved  to  escape  from  the  irritation  of  his 
own  thoughts  and  seek  amusement  in  the 
society  of  Letitia.  For  this  purpose  he  took 
an  early  lunch  at  his  club,  and  by  two  o'clock 
was  wending  his  way  up  the  sunlit  streets  that 
run  between  large  houses  and  blooming  gar- 
dens through  what  is  known  as  the  Western 
Addition. 

For  the  past  six  years  it  had  been  an  open 
secret  in  that  small  family  circle  that  Mortimer 
Gault  and  his  wife  wished  to  make  a  marriage 
between  John  and  Letitia.  Certainly  it  was  a 
neat  combination  of  the  family  relationships 
and  properties  that  might  have  suggested  itself 


HARD-PAN  45 

to  any  one.  The  ambition  had  originated  with 
Maud  Gault,  who,  like  most  managing,  clever 
women,  was  a  match-maker,  and  who,  with  her 
social  successes  and  pecuniary  ambitions,  would 
naturally  select  as  the  husband  of  her  only 
sister  this  rich,  agreeable,  and  presentable  gen- 
tleman who  was  so  constantly  in  their  society, 
and  who  stood  upon  that  footing  of  a  semi- 
romantic  intimacy  which  distant  relationship 
gives.  But  it  was  difficult  to  force  the  two  ob- 
jects of  this  matrimonial  plot  into  sentimental 
relations.  Letitia  was  reserved  upon  the  sub j  ect 
of  her  own  feelings.  Mrs.  Gault,  who  was  not 
reserved  upon  any  subject  except  her  age,  could 
get  nothing  out  of  the  girl,  either  as  to  what  she 
herself  felt  for  John  or  as  to  what  she  thought 
he  felt  for  her.  Sometimes  Letitia  laughed  a 
little  when  the  persistent  questions  of  her  sister 
were  hard  to  avoid;  sometimes  she  blushed; 
and  once  or  twice  she  had  grown  angry  and  re- 
belled against  this  intrusive  catechizing.  It 
was  difficult  even  for  so  keen  a  woman  as  Maud 
Gault  to  read  the  girl's  heart. 

John  Gault,  who  was  sincerely  fond  of  Le- 
titia, in  a  steady-going,  brotherly  way,  watched 
the  manoeuvers  of  his  sister-in-law  with  a  good 
deal  of  inward  amusement.  He  was  confident 
that  Letitia  entertained  the  same  sort  of  regard 
for  him  that  he  did  for  her,  and  he  took  an 
honest  and  simple  pleasure  in  the  frank  good-fel- 


46  HARD-PAN 

lowsbip  that  existed  between  them.  Now  and 
then,  it  is  true,  he  had  vaguely  thought  of  the 
young  girl  as  his  wife,  and  had  wondered,  in  an 
idle  way,  whether  he  could  win  her  affection.  He 
thought  that  no  man  could  ever  find  a  better 
wife  than  she  would  make.  But  these  were 
aimless  speculations,  and  no  one  knew  of  them. 
Even  Maud  Gault  sometimes  felt  discouraged 
—  he  was  so  exasperatingiy  pleased  when  she 
told  him  of  Letitia's  admirers ! 

Though  it  was  so  early,  Gault  found  one  of 
these  rivals  already  before  him.  Tod  McCor- 
mick,  the  only  son  of  Jerry  McCormick,  who 
had  been  "  made  "  by  Colonel  Reed,  was  sitting 
with  Letitia  in  the  drawing-room,  to  which  the 
umbrella-plants  and  palms  gave  an  overheated 
and  tropical  appearance.  The  sunlight  poured 
into  the  room,  and,'  shining  through  the  green 
of  all  this  juicy  and  outspreading  foliage  over 
the  lustrous  silks  on  piled-up  cushions  and  up- 
holstered chairs,  gave  an  impression  of  radiance 
and  color  even  more  brilliant  than  that  imparted 
by  the  lamplight. 

In  the  midst  of  the  rainbow  brightness  Le- 
titia sat  among  the  cushions.  She  was  very  up- 
right, for  she  was  not  of  the  long,  lithe  order  of 
women  who  lounge  gracefully,  but  in  her  tight- 
drawn  silks  and  pendulating  laces  she  found 
her  habitual  attitude  of  square-shouldered 
erectness  more  comfortable. 


HARD-PAN  47 

Her  guest,  who  rose  to  meet  the  newcomer, 
looked  as  if  he  must  be  a  changeling  in  the 
blooming  and  lusty  brood  of  Jerry  McCormick. 
While  his  sisters  were  women  of  that  richness 
of  coloring  and  contour  peculiar  to  California, 
Tod  was  not  five  feet  and  a  half  high,  and  was 
thin,  meager,  sallow-skinned,  and  weak-eyed. 
A  thatch  of  lifeless  hair  covered  his  narrow 
head,  and  a  small  and  sickly  mustache  had 
been  coaxed  into  existence  on  his  upper  lip. 
He  was  in  reality  twenty-seven  years  old,  but 
he  looked  hardly  twenty.  Even  his  clothes,  of 
the  most  fashionable  make  and  texture,  could 
not  impart  to  him  an  air  of  elegance  or  style. 
Their  very  splendor  seemed  to  heighten  his 
insignificance. 

"  Howdy,  Gault,"  he  said,  his  small  and  wea- 
zened countenance  lightened  by  a  fleeting  and 
evidently  perfunctory  smile.  "You  're  early, 
but  I  'm  earlier." 

"  I  came  to  see  my  brother,"  said  the  older 
man,  rather  stiffly,  for  though  he  knew  Tod  to 
be  good-natured  and  harmless,  he  did  not  like 
him. 

"  What  a  pity !  "  said  Letitia.  "  Maud  and 
Mortimer  are  both  out.  They  're  lunching  at 
the  Murrays'.  But  they  '11  be  back  soon  now. 
Won't  you  sit  here  with  us  ? " 

Though  Tod's  annoyance  at  this  proposition 
did  not  find  vent  in  words,  it  was  plain  to  be 


48  HARD-PAN 

seen  in  the  dejected  and  sullen  expression  that 
settled  on  his  face.  With  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  he  stood  looking  down  on  his  feet  in 
pointed  patent-leather  shoes,  balancing  absently 
on  his  toes  and  heels. 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Gault,  whose  dislike  of 
the  young  man  did  not  go  far  enough  to 
blight  his  afternoon.  "  I  '11  go  into  the  library. 
I  've  got  some  letters  to  read  over  and  answer, 
and  I  '11  do  it  now,  while  I  am  waiting." 

He  turned  away  and  passed  through  the 
wide  hall-space  to  the  library,  a  room  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  where  two  large  windows 
commanded  a  view  of  the  Golden  Gate  and  the 
bay.  He  had  picked  up  a  magazine  from  a 
table  in  the  hall,  and  now,  seating  himself,  pre- 
pared to  look  at  it.  But  he  presently  threw  it 
aside,  and  abandoned  himself  to  a  dreamy  sur- 
vey of  the  view. 

The  magnificent  panorama  of  hills  and  water 
lay  still  and  enormous  under  the  afternoon 
sun.  It  was  not  late  enough  for  the  summer's 
drought  to  have  burned  the  hills,  and  the  nearer 
ones  were  a  faint,  mellow  green.  Their  hollows 
were  filled  with  clear,  amethyst  shadows,  and 
the  sea  lay  at  their  bases,  motionless  and  level 
like  a  blue  floor.  The  extraordinary  vividness 
which  marks  the  Californian  landscape  was 
softened  by  the  almost  imperceptible  haze 
which  overlay  the  scene.    The  watcher  clasped 


HARD-PAN  49 

his  hands  behind  his  head,  and  looked  with 
troubled  eyes  at  this  splendid  prospect.  From 
the  room  beyond  came  the  murmur  of  conver- 
sation, every  now  and  then  interrupted  by  the 
high,  cackling  laugh  of  Tod  McCormick.  Pres- 
ently there  was  a  break  in  the  voices,  they  grew 
louder  and  decreased,  the  hall  door  banged,  and 
Letitia  came  rustling  into  the  room. 

"  It  's  too  bad  Maud  and  Mortimer  are  not 
back  yet,"  she  said.  "  You  '11  have  to  talk  to 
me." 

Gault  yawned,  flung  out  his  arms  in  a 
stretch,   and  looked  at  her  smiling. 

"  I  told  a  little  story  in  there.  It  was  out  of 
consideration  for  the  feelings  of  your  young 
man.  I  did  n't  come  to  see  Mortimer.  I  came 
to  see  you." 

There  was  no  denying  the  fact  that  Letitia 
looked  pleased.  She  tried  to  hide  her  satisfac- 
tion under  an  air  of  curiosity. 

"What  did  you  come  to  see  me  for!  "she 
asked. 

"  To  take  a  walk.  It  's  too  fine  to  stay  in- 
doors talking  to  Tod  McCormicks.  Gro  up- 
stairs and  put  on  your  hat,  and  let 's  take  a 
pasear?^ 

Letitia  needed  no  urging.  She  rarely  went 
out  alone  with  G-ault,  and  the  prospect  of  a 
walk  in  his  society  was  very  attractive. 

She  was  absent  some  time.    When  she  re- 


50  HARD-PAN 

appeared  the  cause  of  her  delay  was  evident. 
She  had  changed  her  dress,  and  now,  in  a 
checked  silk  of  black  and  white,  and  trimmed 
with  a  wonderful  arrangement  of  black  gauze 
and  ribbon,  she  looked  her  best.  A  large  black 
hat  with  a  brim  shaded  the  upper  part  of  her 
face.  In  the  back  it  was  trimmed  with  some 
green  flowers  which  made  a  delightful  harmony 
with  her  copper-colored  hair.  Her  cheeks  were 
slightly  flushed,  and  as  she  entered  the  room, 
conscious,  perhaps,  of  her  beauty  and  her  vanity 
in  thus  decking  it,  her  eyes  sought  his,  asking 
for  admiration. 

Unfortunately  he  was  not  looking  at  her,  but 
was  turning  over  the  pages  in  the  magazine  he 
had  formerly  discarded. 

"  Are  you  ready  I "  he  said,  without  looking 
up,  but  hearing  from  the  rustle  of  her  dress 
that  she  was  beside  him.  "  I  thought  you  were 
never  coming." 

Outside  the  house,  they  turned  to  the  right 
and  walked  slowly  up  the  avenue,  conversing 
with  the  desultory  indifference  of  old  friends. 
In  the  bright  afternoon  sunlight  the  broad 
street  stretched  before  them,  almost  deserted  in 
its  Sunday  calm.  On  either  side  the  gardens 
blazed  with  color,  enameled  with  blooms  of  an 
astonishing  richness  of  tint.  Over  the  tops 
of  fences  nasturtiums  poured  blossoms  that 
danced  in  the  air  like  tongues  of  fire.     Scarlet 


HARD-PAN  51 

geraniums,  topping  long  stalks,  clothed  with  a 
royal  robe  the  summit  of  hedges.  Against 
sunny  stretches  of  wall,  heliotrope  broke  in  a 
purple  foam.  Climbing  roses  hung  in  heavy 
clusters  from  vines  that  were  drooping  under 
the  weight  of  such  a  prodigal  over-production. 
The  wide,  sumptuous  flowers  of  the  purple 
clematis  clung  round  the  balcony  posts,  com- 
pletely concealing  the  dry,  thread-like  vine  that 
gave  them  birth. 

Between  the  houses,  each  one  detached  in 
its  own  square  of  ground,  with  that  suggestion 
of  space  which  is  peculiar  to  San  Francisco, 
glimpses  of  the  bay  came  and  went— bits  of  the 
gaunt  hills,  lengths  of  turquoise  sea  touched 
here  and  there  with  a  patch  of  white  sail,  and 
sudden  views  of  Alcatraz  queening  it  alone  on 
its  red-brown  rock. 

Letitia  and  Gault  walked  on,  now  and  then 
according  the  customary  phrase  to  the  beauty 
of  the  landscape.  Letitia,  who  was  not  an  ad- 
mirer of  nature,  was  much  more  interested  in 
the  occasional  couples  they  met,  smart  and 
smiling  in  their  Sunday  attire ;  but,  with  the 
complaisance  of  her  amia^  le  spirit,  she  was 
always  quick  to  echo  her  companion's  enthu- 
siasm. Presently,  after  walking  in  silence  for 
a  few  minutes,  he  asked  her : 

"  How  would  you  like  to  earn  your  own 
living,  Letitia?" 


52  HARD-PAN 

This  was  rather  an  unexpected  problem  to 
solve,  but  Letitia  had  no  doubts  on  the  subject, 
and  answered  promptly: 

"I  would  n't  like  it  at  all." 

"  But  there  are  lots  of  women  who  have  to— 
women  like  you,  who  have  had  everything  they 
wanted,  and  been  well  taken  care  of,  and  then 
their  parents— relations— guardians  lose  their 
money,  and  they  have  to  work." 

"I  think  it  would  be  better  for  them  to 
marry,"  said  Letitia,  sagely.  "  It 's  much  bet- 
ter for  a  woman  to  marry,  and  have  some  one 
to  take  care  of  her,  than  to  have  to  take  care 
of  herself." 

"  Well,  suppose  she  does  n't  want  to  marry, 
or  does  n't  want  to  marry  the  kind  of  man  that 
asks  her,  is  n't  it  better  for  her  to  work  for  her 
living?  Would  n't  a  proud,  self-respecting 
woman  rather  work  for  her  living  than— than 
—than  not  ?  You  see,  Letitia,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  her  with  a  smile,  "  how  much  I  think 
of  your  opinion." 

"  Of  course,  any  woman  would  rather  work 
than  go  without  things.  She  'd  have  to.  Why 
do  you  want  my  opinion  ?  Whom  do  you  know 
that  has  to  work  for  her  living  ? " 

"  Oh,  no  one  in  especial,"  he  said,  with  a  care- 
less shrug.  "  It  was  just  a  supposititious  case. 
I  was  reading  a  novel  about  something  like 
that,  and  I  thought  I  'd  get  your  opinion  as  an 


HARD-PAN  53 

intelligent,  modern,  up-to-date  young  person." 
He  looked  at  her  again  with  his  indulgent  and 
somewhat  quizzical  smile.  "Are  n't  you  all 
that,  Tishy  1 "  he  asked,  using  the  family 
diminutive  of  her  name. 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  "  whether  I  'm 
all  that.  I  may  be  some  of  it.  But  it  's  so 
awfully  hard  for  a  woman  to  support  herself. 
They  have  such  a  hard  time,  and  get  so  badly 
paid,  and  there  are  so  few  things  that  you 
make  money  by  soon,  you  know,  without 
studying  for  years." 

"  Why,  it  seems  to  me  there  are  lots  of  things : 
dressmaking,  and  type-writing,  and  —  er— trim- 
ming hats,  and  making  jam,  and  reciting  poems, 
and  teaching  children." 

Letitia  laughed. 

"  Why,  how  could  a  girl  type-write,  or  trim 
hats,  or  even  make  jam,  without  knowing  how? 
You  've  got  to  learn  those  things.  I  've  tried 
to  trim  hats  a  dozen  times,  and  always  spoiled 
them;  and  one  summer  Maud  undertook  to 
make  some  jam,  and  it  was  perfectly  awful— I 
don't  mean  the  jam:  I  mean  the  house  while 
the  jam  was  getting  made.  Maud  and  the 
Chinaman  and  Mortimer  were  all  in  such  a 
bad  temper !  " 

They  walked  on  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 
Then  Letitia  continued : 

"  Why,  even  the  girls  who  have  fairly  good 


54  HARD-PAN 

positions  in  stores  don't  get  enough  to  live  on. 
The  girl  who  shampoos  my  hair  has  a  sister  in 
Abram's,  and  she  gets  seven  dollars  a  week, 
and  has  to  be  nicely  dressed.  Just  fancy  that ! " 
said  Letitia;  and  then,  in  a  burst  of  candor: 
"Why,  I  never  in  this  world  could  dress  on 
that  alone,  even  if  I  gave  up  silk  stockings  and 
always  wore  alpaca  petticoats  like  the  woman 
who  teaches  Maud  German." 

"  Nevertheless,"  said  Gault,  "  it  seems  to  me 
that  a  woman  who  was  high-minded  and  proud 
and  independent  would  be  a  shop-girl  and  live 
on  seven  dollars  a  week  rather  than—" 

He  stopped.  Letitia  looked  at  him  interest- 
edly, struck  by  something  in  his  tone. 

"  Eather  than  what  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Eather  than— well,  in  this  story  the  peo- 
ple who  were  so  poor  had  friends  that  were 
well  off,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  they  bor- 
rowed from  them,  and— I  think  it  's  going  to 
turn  out  that  they  lived  that  way." 

"  Did  the  girl  borrow  ?  Would  n't  work  and 
lived  on  the  borrowed  money  f     Oh,  that 's  —  !  " 

Letitia  raised  both  hands  in  the  air  and  let 
them  drop  with  a  gesture  that  expressed 
complete  finality  of  interest  and  approval. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'oh,'  Letitia!"  he 
said,  rather  sharply.  "I  never  said  the  girl 
knew  anything  about  it." 

"  Well,  she  must  have  had  some  curiosity  to 


HARD-PAN  55 

know  where  the  money  came  from.  When  her 
father  or  mother  came  in  and  said,  'Here  's 
ten  dollars  to  pay  the  butcher,  and  here  's 
twenty  dollars  to  pay  the  grocer,'  don't  you 
suppose  she  wanted  to  know  where  it  came 
from?  Really,  John,  considering  you  're  sup- 
posed to  be  so  clever,  you  don't  know  much 
about  women." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  she  went  on : 

"  Of  course  she  knew  all  about  it.  She 
would  have  been  an  idiot  if  she  had  n't.  And 
she  does  n't  sound  at  all  like  an  idiot.  It 's  just 
the  other  way.  She  was  clever— altogether  too 
clever.  I  don't  like  that  kind  of  person  at  all. 
I  would  n't  trust  her  from  here  to  the  corner. 
She  must  have  been  one  of  those  soft,  clinging, 
gentle  creatures  who  are  always  turning  aside 
to  hide  their  tears.     Was  she  ? " 

"  I  dare  say.  You  seem  to  know  more  about 
her  than  I  do." 

"  But  it  sounds  very  interesting,"  said  Leti- 
tia,  coming  closer  to  him.  "  I  'd  like  to  read  it. 
What  is  the  name  of  the  book ! " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  remember.  It  's  nonsense,  any- 
way —  some  stuif  not  worth  talking  about." 

Letitia  continued  to  look  at  him  silently  for 
a  moment ;  then  she  said  slowly : 

"  It  's  not  a  book  at  all.  It 's  a  real  person. 
You  've  been  trying  to  make  a  fool  of  me." 

He  looked  at  her  quickly,  his  eyes,  behind  the 


56  HARD-PAN 

shield  of  his  glasses,  narrowed  to  mere  lines. 
For  a  moment,  as  their  cold  gleam  met  hers, 
she  shrank,  for  she  thought  he  was  angry,  and, 
like  other  people,  Letitia  was  afraid  of  John 
Gault's  anger.  Then  he  smiled  at  her,  and 
said: 

"  If  you  ever  have  to  earn  your  living,  Tishy, 
there  '11  be  no  trouble  about  your  vocation. 
You  'd  make  a  fortune  as  a  female  detective.  I 
never  saw  such  wonderful  ability.  Why,  Sher- 
lock Holmes  is  n't  in  it  with  you." 

"  You  can  laugh  as  much  as  you  like,"  said 
Letitia,  flushing  under  his  sarcasms,  "but  I 
know  I  'm  right." 

"  What ! "  he  said,  coming  to  a  standstill, 
and  staring  into  her  face  with  a  frown  of 
exaggerated  intensity,  "  you  actually  don't  be- 
lieve me?" 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  retorted,  doggedly  com- 
bative. 

"  After  all  these  years,  has  my  noble  example 
of  truth  and  probity  made  no  deeper  impression 
on  you?  Oh,  Letitia,  I  could  n't  have  believed 
it  of  you !  " 

"I  don't  care  what  you  say,"  she  repeated, 
"  or  how  you  try  to  turn  it  off.  It  's  a  real 
person,  and  I  'm  certain  she  's  simply  horrid. 
And  if  you  take  my  advice,  the  less  you  have 
to  do  with  her  the  better." 

This  was  apparently  too  much  for  the  so- 


HARD-PAN  57 

briety  of  John  Gault.  In  the  loneliness  of  the 
street  his  laughter  resounded  deep  and  loud. 
Letitia  looked  at  him  with  moody  disfavor  as 
he  stood,  his  face  flushed,  his  eyes  suffused 
with  moisture,  and  fairly  roared.  Letitia's 
eyes  were  threatened  with  a  moisture  of  a  dif- 
ferent kind. 

"  Oh,  dear  Tishy,"  he  said,  when  his  paroxysm 
was  over,  taking  one  of  her  hands  and  holding 
it  tightly,  "  what  a  sage  you  are !  How  good 
of  you  to  warn  me !  With  you  to  take  care  of 
me,  I  ought  never  to  come  to  any  harm." 

"I  guess  you  never  would,"  said  Letitia,  with 
a  little  sigh.  "Certainly  I  know  enough  to 
know  that  that  woman  is  not  a  good  person  to 
trust  —  or  even  to  know,"  added  the  mentor, 
with  an  accent  of  warning,  and  staring  at  him 
with  large,  cautioning  eyes  from  under  her 
hat- brim. 

Her  companion  was  threatened  with  another 
outburst. 

"  Oh,  Letitia,  don't  be  so  funny ^^"^  he  said.  "  I 
have  n't  laughed  as  much  as  this  for  a  month." 

He  took  her  hand  and,  drawing  it  inside  his 
arm,  pressed  it  against  his  heart ;  then,  looking 
down  at  her  with  eyes  still  full  of  laughter,  but 
touched  with  tenderness,  he  said : 

"  To  think  of  Letitia  Mason  taking  the  trou- 
ble to  give  me  good  advice !  " 

Letitia  was  mollified,  less  by  his  words  than 


58  HARD-PAN 

by  his  manner,  which  had  in  it  that  kindly 
camaraderie  which  made  her  feel  happy  and  at 
ease.  She  withdrew  her  hand,  laughing,  and 
said,  with  a  sort  of  shyness  that  was  very 
charming : 

"  I  '11  always  give  you  good  advice,  if  you  '11 
promise  not  to  laugh  at  me." 

Then  they  walked  on,  talking  of  other  things, 
until  the  girl's  spirits  were  restored  to  their 
normal  attitude  of  a  sedate,  candid  cheeriness. 
She  grew  quite  talkative,  discoursing  to  him  of 
various  small  happenings  in  the  house,  and  not 
noticing,  in  her  recovered  good  humor,  that 
his  answers  were  short  and  his  manner  grave 
and  distrait. 

As  they  retraced  their  steps  the  broad,  yellow 
glow  of  the  sunset  deepened  behind  them,  and 
before  them  burned  on  the  windows  of  houses 
that  climbed  the  hillsides  still  farther  on.  The 
water  and  its  low-lying  shores— flat  lands  where 
silver  creeks  lay  embedded  like  the  metal  wires 
in  cloisonne  ware— were  already  veiled  in  a 
soft,  purplish  twilight  which  exhaled  a  creeping 
chilliness.  At  a  high  point,  unobstructed  by 
buildings,  they  turned  to  watch  the  sun  drop 
into  the  sea.  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate, resting  on  the  horizon  like  a  spinning 
copper  disk ;  then  it  slipped  out  of  sight,  and 
the  darkness  rushed  up  from  unexpected  places 
and  swept  over  the  prospect,  blotting  out  all 


HARD-PAN  59 

distinctions  of  color.  Only  in  the  west  there 
was  a  great  gold  radiance,  against  which  little 
red  clouds  floated  like  bits  of  raveled  silk. 

John  Gault,  as  was  his  Sunday  custom,  dined 
with  his  brother's  family.  After  dinner  he 
left  early,  before  the  usual  callers  appeared— 
generally  young  men  come  to  bow  the  knee  at 
Letitia's  shrine. 

For  a  space  he  walked  down  the  street  with 
a  quick,  decided  step.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  he 
stopped,  and  stood  looking  at  the  pavement, 
uncertain  and  irresolute.  The  car  which  had 
borne  him  to  the  other  side  of  town  on  the  last 
evening  that  he  had  dined  with  the  Mortimer 
Gaults  glided  across  the  avenue  some  blocks 
farther  down.  He  heard  its  bell  and  saw  the 
long  funnel  of  light  from  its  lantern  pierce  the 
darkness  before  it. 

He  stood  for  a  moment  watching  it,  then 
turned  in  the  opposite  direction  and  stopped. 
As  he  hesitated,  he  heard  in  the  distance  the 
bell  of  the  next  car.  With  a  smothered  ejacu- 
lation, he  wheeled  about  and  ran  for  it.  He 
caught  the  car  and  swung  himself  to  a  front 
seat. 

"  Kismet ! "  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  sank 
down  panting. 


Ill 


AT  this  period  of  his  history  the  colonel's 
J\-  exchequer  must  have  been  in  a  particu- 
larly depleted  condition,  for  it  was  not  a  week 
after  John  Gault's  visit  that  he  again  appeared 
at  the  office,  and  this  time  requested  a  loan  of 
forty  dollars. 

Had  the  colonel,  during  this  interview,  ex- 
hibited some  of  that  shamefaced  and  conscious 
embarrassment  that  the  most  hardened  bor- 
rowers will  show,  his  benefactor  would  have 
felt  less  miserably  ill  at  ease.  But  the  old  man 
was  as  suave  and  affably  benignant  as  if  he 
were  conferring  a  long- solicited  favor.  That 
there  was  something  of  shame  in  his  barefaced 
assaults  upon  the  purse  of  his  daughter's  friend 
seemed  an  idea  that  had  never  entered  his 
mind.  No  disconcerting  scruples  marred  his 
appreciation  of  his  sudden  good  fortune.  Pride 
was  evidently  a  possession  of  which  he  was  as 
poorly  supplied  as  he  was  with  the  tangible 
goods  of  this  world. 


HARD-PAN  61 

He  was  in  the  best  of  spirits ;  indeed,  to  John 
Gault's  suspicious  eye  he  had  the  triumphant  air 
of  a  man  who  had  found  a  good  thing.  He  came 
into  the  office  with  a  jaunty  tread  and  an  alert, 
all-embracing  glance,  and  left  it  showering 
smiles  and  bows  on  its  chief  and  his  clerks.  The 
sun  of  his  prosperity  seemed  to  have  warmed  and 
brightened  him  in  every  way.  He  told  inimi- 
table stories  of  the  early  days,  which— unham- 
pered by  the  presence  of  his  daughter— were  less 
egotistical,  and  not  always  so  conventional,  as 
those  he  regaled  Gault  with  at  home.  He  was 
as  pressing  as  ever  in  his  invitations  to  call,  and 
into  these  introduced  Viola's  name  as  being  a 
participator  with  himself  in  the  desire  of  seeing 
their  mutual  friend  as  often  as  his  time  and 
inclination  would  lead  him  to  the  house  near 
South  Park. 

After  this  visit  the  vague  irritation  and 
moodiness  that  Gault  had  felt  gave  place  to 
a  poignant  sense  of  uncertainty  and  doubt. 
Naturally  of  a  suspicious  nature,  the  life  he  had 
led,  the  surroundings  in  which  he  had  passed 
from  youth  to  maturity,  the  large  experience 
of  evil  gained  in  a  twenty  years'  residence  in  a 
thoroughly  loose  and  lawless  city,  had  intensi- 
fied his  original  tendency  till  he  was  now  prone 
to  suspect  where  suspicion  was  either  a  folly  or 
an  insult.  He  had  the  vain  man's  dread  of 
being  fooled,  imposed  upon,  made  ridiculous. 


62  HARD-PAN 

and  he  was  proud  of  his  keenness  in  detecting 
such  intentions. 

At  twenty-two  he  had  come  from  Harvard  to 
San  Francisco,  had  plunged  into  the  fashiona- 
ble life  of  the  day,  and  being  the  son  of  wealthy 
and  well-known  parents,  had  quickly  learned 
the  bitter  lessons  which  society  teaches  its  fol- 
lowers. People  said  John  Gault  had  never 
married  because  he  believed  in  no  woman. 
This  was  an  aspersion  upon  his  sound,  if  nar- 
row, common  sense.  He  was  afraid  of  marriage, 
of  a  terrible  disillusionment,  followed  by  a  life- 
time of  conventionally  correct  misery.  What 
he  feared  in  it  was  himself.  He  dreaded  that 
he  might  not  make  the  woman  he  married 
happy,  and  deep  in  his  soul  he  cherished  the 
same  dream  as  Balzac,  who  once  wrote :  "  To 
devote  myself  to  the  happiness  of  a  woman  has 
been  my  ceaseless  dream,  and  I  suffer  because 
I  have  not  realized  it."  With  the  passage  of 
the  years  he  had  grown  narrower  and  more 
ambitionless.  When  he  met  Viola  Reed  he  was 
sinking  into  the  dull  apathy  of  a  self -engrossed 
and  purposeless  middle  age. 

Her  attraction  for  him  was  sudden  and  com- 
pelling. He  often  wondered  why  he  liked  her 
so  much.  He  had  known  hundreds  of  women 
who  were  prettier  and  quite  as  clever.  About 
Viola  there  was  a  curious,  distinguishing  touch 
of  refinement  that  he  did  not  find  in  many  of 


HARD-PAN  63 

the  beauties  and  belles  who  were  so  ready  to 
smile  on  him  at  the  fortnightly  cotillions  and 
subscription  germans.  The  delicate  modesty 
of  her  beauty  satisfied  his  exacting  eye. 
There  was  something  subtle  and  rare  about  her, 
a  suggestion  of  romance  in  her  wide,  pondering 
eyes,  a  charm  of  mystery  behind  the  face  that 
looked  so  youthful  and  yet  was  so  femininely 
secretive.  She  always  seemed  to  say  the  right 
thing,  and  that  and  the  soft  tones  of  her  voice 
were  keenly  pleasing  to  his  fastidious  taste. 

At  first  he  had  merely  sought  her  society  for 
the  passing  pleasure  he  had  derived  from  it. 
He  was  reaching  that  stage  of  life  when  he 
found  it  difficult  to  be  interested  in  new  people, 
and  where  the  long  tedium  of  a  dinner  next  a 
handsome  and  pretentious  partner  was  begin- 
ning to  assume  the  aspect  of  a  martyrdom. 
There  was  nothing  irksome  or  commonplace 
or  tedious  in  the  evenings  spent  in  the  house 
near  South  Park;  even  the  colonel  ceased  to 
be  a  bore  when  his  daughter  sat  by  listening. 
G-ault  began  to  like  going  there  better  than 
going  anywhere  else.  On  the  days  when  he 
decided  that  he  would  spend  the  evening  at  the 
Reeds',  he  found  himself  looking  forward  to  the 
visit  all  the  afternoon.  The  anticipation  of  it 
lay  like  a  glad  thought  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart.  On  the  night  that  Letitia  had  asked 
him  about   Colonel  Reed's   daughter,  he   had 


64  HARD-PAN 

nearly  arrived  at  a  conclusion— that  Viola 
Reed  was  the  one  woman  in  the  world  for  him. 

Nearly,  but  not  quite.  The  next  day  Colonel 
Reed  had  come  and  borrowed  the  first  fifty 
dollars. 

This  simple  action  had  disturbed  John 
G-ault's  serenity.  The  second  and  third  visits 
tore  the  fabric  of  his  dream  to  pieces.  If  the 
old  man  had  only  made  his  request  once,  he 
would  have  thought  no  more  of  it  than  of  the 
numberless  other  loans  which  he  had  contrib- 
uted to  the  human  wreckage  left  by  the  receding 
tides  of  San  Francisco's  several  booms.  But  the 
colonel's  subsequent  appearances,  so  closely  fol- 
lowing on  Gault's  visits,  awoke  a  sudden  swarm 
of  suspicions  that  began  buzzing  their  impor- 
tunate warnings  into  his  ears.  Why  had  the 
old  man  been  so  effusive  in  the  beginning! 
Why  had  he  invited  him,  insisted  even,  upon 
his  calling?  Was  he  so  determinedly  hospita- 
ble merely  to  secure  a  listener  to  his  reminis- 
cences? And  if  he  had  acted  upon  his  own 
impulses  at  first,— which  certainly  seemed  the 
case,— Viola  could  have  stopped  him  later  on. 
Gault  had  noticed  that  her  word  seemed  law  to 
her  father. 

In  the  pain  of  his  doubts  he  surreptitiously 
made  inquiries,  and  discovered  that  Colonel 
Reed's  penury  was  of  the  past  five  years'  dura- 
tion.    Up  to  that  time  he  had  still  held  small 


HARD-PAN  65 

properties  and  realized  on  them  at  intervals. 
People  who  knew  said  that  since  then  his  cir- 
cumstances had  been  desperate,  and  yet  it  was 
known  of  all  men  that  he  was  engaged  in  no 
paid  employment.  It  was  the  one  point  upon 
which  the  pride  of  the  erstwhile  millionaire 
was  firm.  Viola  did  no  work,  either.  In  the 
West,  the  woman  laboring  to  help  sustain  the 
ruined  fortunes  of  her  family  is  so  common  a 
spectacle  that  the  strong  man,  secure  in  his 
riches  and  his  health,  felt  a  species  of  fierce 
indignation  against  the  girl  for  her  seeming 
idleness. 

Yet  it  must  take  so  little  to  keep  them. 
They  owned  the  house  they  lived  in,  and  em- 
ployed no  servant,  Viola  doing  all  the  work  of 
the  small  menage.  He  had  tried  to  persuade 
himself  that  the  colonel  was  using  him  for  his 
banker  without  the  girl's  knowledge,  and  then 
Letitia,  with  her  heavy  feminine  common  sense, 
had  laid  her  finger  on  the  weak  spot  in  that 
argument.  How  could  a  sudden  influx  of 
money  enter  into  so  small  a  household  without 
the  cognizance  of  the  person  who  managed  it 
all?  It  was  nonsensical  to  think  of.  She 
knew— -and  if  she  knew,  was  she  not  party  to 
the  whole  sordid,  ugly  plot  ? 

But  here  he  always  stopped.  It  was  impos- 
sible. It  could  not  be.  The  image  of  her  face 
rose  before  him,  as  it  often  did  now,  making 


66  HARD-PAN 

him  feel  disgusted  and  ashamed  that  even  in 
thought  he  should  have  done  her  an  injury. 
There  was  a  mistake  somewhere.  It  would  ex- 
plain itself.  But  he  knew  that  until  it  did  ex- 
plain itself  he  would  know  no  peace ;  for  he  could 
not  live  without  seeing  her,  and  at  every  visit 
he  felt  her  charm  penetrate  deeper  into  his 
heart,  despite  his  lurking  doubts. 

He  spent  hours  in  pondering  as  to  the  best 
way  to  silence  these  doubts  without  letting  her 
suspect  their  existence.  Even  if  she  were  cog- 
nizant of  it,  he  could  hardly  speak  to  her  of 
her  father's  borrowing.  Yet  in  his  thought 
she  always  seemed  so  simple,  so  girlish,  so 
young,  that  he  was  sure  if  he  could  see  her 
alone,  and  perhaps  turn  the  conversation  upon 
some  analogous  subject,  her  ignorance  would 
speak  from  every  feature.  He  had  grown  to 
know  all  the  varying  expressions  of  her  face, 
and  he  felt  that  he  could  detect  the  slightest 
change  of  color  or  tremor  of  consciousness  on 
its  pale  innocence. 

He  did  not,  however,  know  at  what  hour  he 
was  likely  to  find  her  by  herself.  He  had  al- 
ways gone  in  the  evening,  as  it  was  the  colonel 
who  asked  him,  and  who  invariably  designated 
that  time.  Gault  fancied  that  his  visits  were 
the  old  man's  chief  amusement  and  recreation, 
and  that  he  so  particularly  insisted  upon  the 
evening  in  the  desire  not  to  miss  them.    Upon 


HARD-PAN  67 

this  hypothesis  he  conchided  that  he  ran  a  bet- 
ter chance  of  finding  Viola  alone  in  the  second 
half  of  the  day,  and  on  his  first  disengaged 
afternoon  he  left  his  office  early,  with  the 
intention  of  walking  across  town  to  South 
Park. 

It  was  not  late  enough  in  the  season  for  the 
summer  winds  to  have  begun,  and  the  straw, 
dust,  paper,  and  general  refuse  that  they  sweep 
away  with  their  steady,  cold  breath  lay  thick 
on  the  pavements.  In  the  hard  light  of  after- 
noon the  dreary  quarter  looked  even  meaner 
and  more  squalid  than  it  did  by  night.  The 
wayfarer  could  see  the  dirt  on  the  little  shop- 
windows,  the  dinginess  of  the  wares  displayed. 
The  small,  open  stands,  where  shell-fish  and 
oyster  cocktails  were  sold,  were  thick  with  flies. 
Behind  the  grimed  glass  of  the  pawnbroker's 
windows  lay  the  relics  of  vanished  days  of 
splendor  and  extravagance.  Old-fashioned 
pieces  of  jewelry,  broken  ornaments,  rusted 
pistols,  gold-mounted  spectacles,  mother-of- 
pearl  opera-glasses,  were  heaped  together  in 
neglected  disorder.  Now  and  then  the  en- 
trance of  a  second-hand  clothes  store  gave  a 
glimpse  of  a  dark  interior  hung  with  clothes, 
between  which  the  sharp  Jewish  faces  of  the 
patron  and  his  wife  peered  out  eagerly. 

John  Gault's  eyes  passed  over  this  with  slow 
disgust.     What  might  not  the  constant  sight  of 


68  HARD-PAN 

such  naked  poverty  breed  in  the  most  sensitive 
soul !  Day  after  day  Viola  must  have  passed 
this  way,  must  have  seen  the  human  spiders 
waiting  in  their  dark  web,  perhajDS  might  have 
chaffered  with  them,  or  recognized  her  own 
jewelry  among  the  tarnished  relics  in  the 
pawnbroker's  window. 

He  turned  into  the  wider  avenue,  where  gen- 
tility had  once  dwelt  in  its  bulky  palaces. 
They  seemed  to  stare  with  wide,  unshuttered 
windows,  drearily  speculating  on  the  desolation 
of  the  street  and  their  own  decay.  Around 
them  gardens  stretched  unkempt  and  parched, 
here  and  there  an  aloe  or  some  vigorously 
growing  shrub  striking  a  note  of  color  in  the 
uniform  grayness.  High  iron  gates,  richly 
wrought,  but  eaten  into  by  rust,  hung  open 
from  broken  hinges,  or  were  tied  together  with 
ravelings  of  rope.  One  of  the  most  imposing, 
still  standing  upright,  was  held  ajar  with  a  piece 
of  broken  brick.  It  gave  entrance  to  a  circular 
sweep  of  driveway  and  a  large  garden  full  of 
rankly  growing  shrubs  and  vines  and  headless 
statues,  with  a  rusty  fountain-basin  in  the  center, 
and  urns  still  showing  the  corpses  of  geraniums. 
Inside  Gault  saw  some  of  the  children  of  the 
neighborhood  playing  games,  and  realized  that 
the  broken  brick  was  evidently  of  their  intro- 
duction. This  was  the  house  which  had  been 
built  by  Jerry  McCormick  thirty-odd  years  be- 


HARD-PAN  69 

fore.  It  had  the  appearance  of  having  been 
deserted  for  a  century. 

A  few  turns  down  narrower  streets  brought 
the  wayfarer  to  the  Reeds'  home.  He  had 
only  seen  it  once  before  by  daylight,  and  now 
eyed  it  with  curiosity.  Though  age  and  pov- 
erty showed  in  its  peeling  stucco  walls,  in 
the  untended  vines  that  hung  about  the  bay- 
window,  in  the  rotting  woodwork  of  the  old 
gate,  it  still  had  the  air  of  a  place  that  is  lived 
in  and  cared  for.  Inside  the  gate  the  pathway 
of  black-and-white  marble  was  clean  and  bright. 
Eound  the  root  of  the  dracsena  there  was  a 
flower-bed  planted  with  mignonette.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  flagged  walk  fuchsias  and  helio- 
trope were  trained  against  the  high  fence  which 
separated  the  house  from  its  next-door  neighbor. 

In  answer  to  his  ring  Viola  opened  the  door. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  blue-and-white  gingham 
dress,  the  sleeves  of  which  were  rolled  up  to 
the  elbows,  and  showed  arms  slightly  rounded 
and  white  as  milk.  She  wore  an  apron  and 
had  a  pair  of  scissors  in  her  hand.  When  she 
saw  who  it  was  the  color  of  joy  ran  in  a  beauti- 
ful flush  over  her  face. 

"  You  never  came  at  this  time  before,"  she 
said  in  the  hall,  hastily  pulling  down  her  sleeves. 
"  I  never  thought  for  a  moment  it  was  you,  or 
I  should  n't  have  come  to  the  door  with  my 
sleeves  this  way.'* 


70  HARD-PAN 

Then  they  passed  into  the  drawing-room. 
The  afternoon  light  streamed  through  the  bare 
emptiness  of  this  once  stately  apartment,  re- 
vealing the  long  crack  that  zigzagged  across  the 
mirror,  and  the  rents  in  the  colonel's  arm-chair. 
In  the  rear  half  of  the  room  there  were  only 
one  or  two  pieces  of  furniture,  evidently  seldom 
used,  and  pushed  back  into  the  corners.  The 
double  doors  leading  from  here  were  open,  and 
vouchsafed  the  visitor  a  view  of  one  of  those  long 
and  spacious  dining-rooms,  with  an  outer  wall 
of  glass,  often  seen  in  old  San  Francisco  houses. 
Fronting  this  glass  wall  were  tiers  of  plants, 
some  mounted  on  rough  boxes,  some  on  tables. 
They  were  of  many  sizes  and  sorts,  but  the 
feathery  foliage  of  the  maidenhair  was  most 
in  evidence.  It  seemed  to  be  growing  in  every 
kind  of  receptacle,  from  the  ordinary  flower- 
pot to  a  tomato-can  on  one  side  and  a  huge 
kerosene-oil  tin  on  the  other.  Near  the  dining- 
table  was  a  chair,  and  the  table  itself  was  lit- 
tered with  brown  paper,  cut  neatly  into  circular 
pieces  about  three  inches  in  diameter. 

Viola  moved  forward  to  close  the  doors,  but 
was  arrested  by  her  visitor. 

"Why,  you  've  a  regular  conservatory  in 
there.    What  beautiful  plants !  " 

She  held  the  door  open  and  let  him  look  in, 
though  apparently  not  quite  at  her  ease. 

"Yes,"  she  said;   "I   have  great  luck  with 


HARD-PAN  71 

ferns.  Some  people  have,  yon  know.  It 's  just 
because  we  take  more  care  of  them  than  others." 

"My  sister-in-law  would  die  of  envy  if  she 
could  see  those,"  said  Gault,  indicating  the 
maidenhairs;  "she  's  always  buying  that  sort 
of  thing,  and  they  're  always  djdng." 

Viola  looked  at  him  thoughtfully  for  a  mo- 
ment. The  color  deepened  in  her  cheeks,  and 
then  she  looked  away  and  began  to  play  with 
the  lock  of  the  door. 

"  She  must  buy  a  great  many ! "  she  said,  with 
a  questioning  inflection. 

"Cart-loads,"  said  he,  absently,  wondering 
what  had  caused  her  augmented  color,  and 
watching  her  as  he  would  always  now  watch 
her  whenever  there  was  the  slightest  deviation 
from  her  normal  manner. 

"And  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "she  spends  a 
great  deal  on  them  I " 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  answered,  "judging  by 
the  number  that  I  've  seen  wither  in  their 
prime  and  disappear,  and  new  ones  take  their 
places  the  next  day." 

Viola  pressed  the  lock  in  and  shot  it  out. 

"Are  any  of  them  dead  just  now!"  she 
asked,  in  rather  a  small  voice. 

"  Dozens,  probably.  It  seems  to  me  some  of 
them  are  always  dead,  only  they  're  considerate 
enough  not  to  all  die  at  the  same  time." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.     Gault's  gaze 


72  HARD-PAN 

was  diverted  from  her  face  to  the  high,  old- 
fashioned  room,  with  its  marble  mantel  carved 
in  fruits  and  flowers  and  its  bare  sideboard. 
Then  Viola  said : 

"Your  sister-in-law  always  gets  her  plants 
from  the  large  florists,  does  n't  she  I  Some  one 
on  Kearney  or  Sutter  Street  I " 

"  I  dare  say  she  does ;  but  I  'm  sure  I  don't 
know.  I  can't  control  my  curiosity  any  further 
—what  were  you  going  to  do  with  those  round 
bits  of  paper  you  were  cutting  when  I  came  in  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  quickly,  a  look  of  sharp, 
dubious  inquiry ;  then,  as  she  met  the  amused 
curiosity  of  his  glance,  she  gave  a  little  laugh 
and  said : 

"I  was  going  to  make  jam." 

"  But  you  don't  make  jam  out  of  paper  ? " 

"No;  those  are  for  the  tops  of  the  glasses. 
I  soak  them  in  brandy  and  put  them  on,  and 
they  preserve  it." 

He  looked  at  the  papers,  then  back  at  her. 
As  their  eyes  met  the  delight  each  felt  in  the 
other's  presence  found  expression  in  a  simulta- 
neous burst  of  laughter.  For  a  moment  they 
stood  facing  each  other,  laughing  in  foolish  but 
happy  lightness  of  heart. 

"  Now,  you  know,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  a  credulous 
person,  but  is  n't  that  going  too  far  ?  Why,  if 
you  used  all  those  things  you  'd  have  jam 
enough  to  feed  the  American  army." 


HARD-PAN  73 

Her  laughter  died,  and  looking  slightly  con- 
fused, she  put  out  her  hand,  seized  the  other 
door,  and  drew  them  together  with  a  bang. 

"  There ! "  she  said,  dropping  the  catch ;  "  you 
can't  see  any  more.  You  're  too  curious,  in  the 
first  place,  and  you  don't  believe  me,  which  is 
worse." 

"  I  've  found  out  the  skeleton  in  the  closet," 
he  said,  as  they  walked  back  into  the  front 
room.  "It  's  the  colonel's  passion  for  jam. 
I  've  heard  of  a  passion  for  pie  running  in 
families,  but  jam  's  something  new." 

The  bare  austerity  of  this  bleak  apartment 
seemed  to  cast  a  sudden  chill  over  their  high 
spirits.  Gault,  sitting  in  the  colonel's  chair,  re- 
verted in  thought  to  the  object  of  his  visit,  and 
wondered  how  he  could  turn  the  conversation 
in  the  direction  he  had  intended.  His  preoccu- 
pation, and  the  sense  of  shame  he  felt  at  the 
mean  part  he  contemplated  playing,  made  him 
respond  to  her  conversational  attempts  with 
dry  shortness.  She  grew  constrained  and  em- 
barrassed, and  finally,  in  a  desperate  attempt 
to  arrest  a  total  silence,  said : 

"  Don't  you  like  my  new  cushion  ?  You  've 
never  noticed  it !  " 

The  visitor's  slow  glance  moved  in  the  direc- 
tion indicated,  and  rested  on  a  cretonne  cushion 
in  one  of  the  wicker  chairs. 

"It  's  a  perfect  beauty,"  he  said,  with  as 


74  HARD-PAN 

mucli  enthusiasm  as  he  thought  the  occasion 
required. 

"  I  'm  glad  you  think  it  's  pretty,"  she  an- 
swered, evidently  much  pleased.  "  I  ought  not 
to  have  bought  it,  I  suppose,  but  I  do  love 
pretty  things." 

"Why  ought  n't  you  to  have  bought  it? 
What  is  the  matter  with  it  I" 

"  Nothing ;  I  mean  it  was  an  extravagance. 
I  sometimes  think  how  perfectly  delightful  it 
would  be  to  be  able  to  go  into  stores  and  buy 
furniture  and  ornaments  and  curtains  just 
whenever  you  wanted." 

This  remark  dispelled  Gault's  preoccupation. 
He  remained  in  the  same  position  and  contin- 
ued staring  at  the  cushion,  but  his  glance  had 
changed  from  its  absent  absorption  to  a  fixed 
and  listening  intentness. 

Viola  saw  that  she  had  interested  him,  and 
continued  with  happy  volubility : 

"  Sometimes,  when  I  have  nothing  to  do  and 
am  here  alone,  I  think  how  I  would  furnish 
this  room  if  I  could  buy  anything  I  saw,  and 
could  just  say  to  some  outside  person,  the  way 
princesses  do,  '  I  have  bought  so  much ;  please 
pay  the  bill.'  I  've  done  it  in  white  and  gold, 
and  in  crimson  with  black  wood,  teak  or  ebony, 
very  plain  and  heavy;  and  also  in  striped 
cretonnes  with  bunches  of  flowers,  and  little 
chairs  and  sofas  with  spindle  legs.     There  's  a 


HARD-PAN  75 

great  deal  of  satisfaction  in  it.  It  's  almost  as 
good  as  having  it  really  happen." 

"  It  sounds  very  amusing,"  said  Gault,  as  she 
paused ;  "  but  then,  castles  in  the  air,"  he  added, 
turning  to  look  at  her,  "are  never  quite  the 
same  as  the  real  thing." 

"  If  you  can't  get  the  real  thing,  you  take  the 
castles  in  the  air,"  she  answered,  smiling. 

"  Tell  me  some  more  of  yours." 

"  Oh,  they  're  just  silly  dreams,  and  merce- 
nary ones,  too.  My  castles  are  all  built  on  a 
foundation  of  money.  It 's  a  dreadful  thing  to 
have  to  acknowledge,  but  I  'm  afraid  I  am 
mercenary.  And  it  's  such  a  horrid  fault  to 
have." 

"  But  is  n't  it  rather  a  useful  one  ? "  he  could 
not  forbear  asking. 

"Not  so  far.  Once  I  had  my  palm  read  by 
a  palmist,  and  he  told  me  I  was  going  to  be 
very  prosperous— to  have  great  riches.  That 's 
one  of  my  best  castles  in  the  air.  I  'm  all  the 
time  wondering  about  it,  and  where  my  great 
riches  are  coming  from." 

She  spread  both  hands,  palms  up,  on  the 
table,  and  studied  them  as  if  trying  to  elicit 
further  secrets  from  their  delicately  lined  sur- 
faces. 

"  Great  riches !  "  she  repeated.  "  Where 
could  a  person  suddenly  find  great  riches? 
The  mining  booms  are  over,  and  in  California 


76  HARD-PAN 

people  don't  strike  oil-wells  in  their  gardens. 
I  'm  afraid  it  will  have  to  be  either  begging, 
borrowing,  or  stealing.  I  wonder  which  I 
would  succeed  best  in." 

With  the  last  words  she  raised  her  bent  head, 
and  her  eyes,  diminished  in  size  by  her  laughter, 
rested  full  on  his.  Their  glance  was  clear,  can- 
did, and  innocently  mirthful  as  that  of  a  merry 
child. 

As  he  stared  at  her,  almost  vacantly,  the 
notes  of  a  clock,  striking  somewhere  in  the 
back  of  the  house,  fell  with  crystalline  distinct- 
ness upon  the  silence. 

"  One— two— three— four— five,"  she  counted 
absently,  with  each  number  touching  the  table 
with  a  finger-tip. 

Gault  rose  to  his  feet,  remarking  with  un- 
feigned surprise  on  the  lateness  of  the  hour. 
She  looked  suddenly  confused  and  annoyed  at 
the  realization  of  her  unintentional  rudeness, 
and  asked  him  if  he  would  not  remain  till  her 
father's  return.  But  he  pleaded  an  engagement 
he  had  made  to  attend  the  tea  given  that  after- 
noon by  Mrs.  Jerry  McCormick,  and,  with  a 
hand  pressure  and  the  conventional  words  of 
farewell,  brought  his  visit  to  a  close. 

Outside,  he  turned  to  the  right  and  walked 
slowly  forward  toward  where  the  rumble  of 
traffic  indicated  one  of  the  large  and  populous 
thoroughfares  of  the  district.    Before  him,  at 


HARD-PAN  77 

the  end  of  the  street's  long  vista,  the  sunset 
glowed  pink,  barred  by  a  delicate  scoring  of 
telegraph-wires.  Even  as  he  looked  it  deep- 
ened and  burned  higher  and  higher  up  the  sky, 
while  at  the  far  end  of  the  vista  it  concentrated 
into  a  core  of  brightness,  as  though  a  conflagra- 
tion were  in  progress  there. 

What  was  he  to  think  ?  He  felt  his  mind  con- 
fused and  full  of  warring  images.  He  had  been 
almost  afraid  of  what  she  might  say— she  who 
was  to  him  the  ideal  of  all  that  was  gentlest 
and  truest  and  most  maidenly.  And  yet  what 
had  she  said  to  disturb  or  annoy  him  ?  It  was 
only  the  foolish  prattle  of  a  girl  who  is  happy 
and  in  high  spirits.  And  even  as  he  made 
these  assurances  to  himself,  sentences  from  the 
past  interview  surged  up  to  the  surface  of  his 
mind :  "  I  'm  afraid  I  'm  mercenary,  and  it  's 
such  a  horrid  fault  to  have."  "  Where  are  my 
riches  coming  from  !  It  will  have  to  be  either 
begging,  borrowing,  or  stealing." 

Her  mother  had  been  an  actress— one  of  the 
stars  of  San  Francisco's  hectic  youth.  Dis- 
simulation might  be  instinctive  with  a  woman 
of  Viola  Reed's  heredity.  It  was  the  whole  art 
of  acting ;  it  was  in  her  blood.  He  thought  of 
all  he  had  ever  heard  of  her  mother,  of  her  few 
years  of  fame  and  glory,  so  splendidly  ended 
by  her  marriage  to  the  bonanza  millionaire.  It 
had  been  a  wonderful,  glittering  life,  quenched 


78  HARD-PAN 

in  an  early  death.  He  had  never  heard  any- 
thing against  her  character,  but  she  had  been 
an  actress,  the  essence  of  whose  art  is  the  ca- 
pacity to  both  conceal  and  assume  emotion. 
And  her  daughter,  in  personal  appearance  at 
least,  resembled  her.  He  had  heard  that  from 
the  colonel  himself. 

A  feeling  of  weariness  and  disillusion  took 
possession  of  him,  and  in  the  sickness  of  heart 
that  it  brought  he  thought  suddenly  of  Letitia. 
She  was  the  one  woman  he  knew  that  he  could 
always  rely  on  to  be  true  and  steadfast  and 
genuine.  Why  had  he  not  loved  her— a  woman 
a  man  could  trust  forever,  and  handsome 
enough  to  be  the  wife  of  a  king!  There  would 
be  no  doubts  nor  difficulties  in  a  life  with  her ; 
it  would  be  all  kindness  and  cheer  and  sym- 
pathy. And  even  as  he  thus  reflected,  he  knew 
that  love  for  Letitia  was  as  far  from  him  as 
was  indifference  to  the  woman  whom  he  mis- 
trusted. 

At  the  very  hour  that  Gault  was  walking 
moodily  across  town  from  South  Park,  Letitia, 
the  object  of  his  thoughts,  was  rolling  along 
the  asphalted  streets  of  the  Western  Addition 
in  Mrs.  Mortimer  Gault's  coupe.  Her  sister 
was  with  her,  and  both  ladies  were  dressed 
with  a  rustling  splendor  which  betokened  festal 
doings.  For  they,  too,  were  en  route  to  the 
McCormick  tea.      This  was,  in  fact,  a  large 


HARD-PAN  1^ 

reception  given  by  Mrs.  McCormick  to  little 
Princo  Dombroski,  a  gentleman  who  had  come 
from  Russia  to  wed  a  Californian  heiress,  and 
was  receiving  a  helping  hand  from  the  McCor- 
micks,  who  on  this  particular  afternoon  had 
gathered  together  all  maiden  and  widowed  San 
Franciscan  Avealth  for  his  insj^ection. 

Letitia  had  dressed  herself  for  the  occasion 
with  great  care.  When  she  had  api>eared  at  the 
front  door  and  descended  the  stairs  to  the  car- 
riage, she  had  presented  so  dazzling  a  picture 
that  even  the  coachman,  a  well-trained  func- 
tionary imported  from  the  East,  could  hardly 
forbear  staring  at  her.  She  was  regally  clothed 
in  a  costume  of  bluish  purple,  with  much  yellow 
lace,  fur,  cream-colored  satin,  and  glints  of  gold 
braiding  about  the  front.  There  was  a  purple 
jewel  at  her  throat,  and  a  bunch  of  pale,  crape- 
like orchids,  that  toned  with  the  hue  of  her 
dress,  was  fastened  on  her  breast.  Clad  thus 
in  the  proudest  production  of  a  great  French 
modiste,  Letitia  was  really  too  handsome  to  be 
quite  in  good  taste.  But  she  was  used  to 
sumptuous  apparel,  and  carried  it  with  the  air 
of  an  actress  who  knows  how  to  take  the  stage. 

Maud  Grault  was  somewhat  less  punctual  to- 
day than  her  sister.  Letitia  sat  in  the  carriage 
waiting  for  her,  and  finally,  by  the  brushing  of 
silken  skirts  and  an  advancing  perfume  of 
wood-violet,  was  apprised  of  her  sister's  ap- 


80  HARD-PAN 

proach.  The  elder  woman  gave  the  address  to 
the  coachman  and  then  sprang  in. 

Hardly  had  the  door  closed  when  she  looked 
at  Letitia  with  a  kindling  eye,  and  said : 

"  Oh,  Tishy,  I  know  the  funniest  thing !  " 

Letitia  knew  that  her  sister  had  something 
of  note  to  impart.  Mrs.  Gault's  dark  cheek 
was  flushed  a  fine  brick-red,  her  eye  was  alight. 
She  was  pulling  on  her  gloves  as  she  spoke. 

"Do  you  remember  that  night,  only  a  few 
weeks  ago,  when  you  asked  John  about  Colonel 
Eeed's  daughter!" 

"Yes." 

"And  do  you  remember  that  he  said  he  'd 
never  seen  her  1 " 

"  No,  he  did  n't  say  that,"  corrected  Letitia ; 
"  he  said  he  'd  heard  of  her." 

"  And  what  else  f "  asked  the  other,  stopping 
in  her  glove-pulling  to  fix  Letitia  with  a  keen 
eye. 

"  I  don't  think  he  said  anything  else.  I  don't 
remember  anything." 

"But  he  certainly  led  us  to  believe  that  he 
did  n't  know  her.     Did  n't  he,  now ! " 

Letitia  paled  slightly.  Her  eyes,  looking 
frankly  troubled,  were  fastened  on  her  sister. 

"Yes-I  think  so.     Why?" 

"Well,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Gault,  bridling 
with  the  consciousness  of  her  important  an- 
nouncement, "he   knows   her  well.     He   goes 


HARD-PAN  81 

there  all  the  time.  He  's  having  a  regular 
affair  with  her.  Did  you  ever  know  anything 
to  beat  men  ? " 

"How  do  you  knowl"  said  Letitia,  looking 
down  and  picking  at  the  gold  arabesques  on 
her  dress. 

"  Mortimer  told  me  last  night.  He  made  me 
swear  I  would  n't  tell  a  living  soul.  You  must 
remember  that,  by  the  way,  or  I  '11  get  into 
trouble.  Mortimer  saw  Colonel  Reed  in  the 
office  the  other  day,  and  that  red-haired  clerk, 
the  one  John  took  in  because  his  mother  was 
crazy  or  consumptive  or  something,  told  Morti- 
mer Colonel  Reed  came  there  often,  and  that 
John  went  out  to  see  him  at  his  home  some- 
where near  South  Park.  Does  n't  that  beat 
the  band?  John  going  calling  in  South  Park 
on  Colonel  Reed's  daughter,  and  then  pretend- 
ing to  us  that  he  does  n't  know  her !  If  John 
knew  the  man  had  said  anything  about  it,  he  'd 
kick  him  down  all  the  stairs  in  the  building,  if 
they  reached  from  here  to  the  ferry." 

Letitia  was  silent.  She  thought  of  the  con- 
versation on  Sunday,  and  the  woman  who  had 
been  the  heroine  of  the  novel.  All  the  sun- 
shine seemed  to  go  out  of  the  afternoon,  and 
the  innocent  joy  she  had  taken  in  putting  on 
her  beautiful  clothes  suddenly  shriveled  up 
and  vanished. 

"He  might  go   out  there  and   see   Colonel 


82  HARD-PAN 

Reed's  daughter  and  not  tell  us  about  it,"  she 
said,  "  and  yet  not— not  be  exactly  in  love  with 
her." 

"  Dear  me,  Letitia,"  said  her  sister,  pettishly, 
"what  a  dunce  you  are!  Do  you  suppose 
John  's  going  to  drag  himself  over  to  South 
Park  to  see  Colonel  Eeed's  daughter  because 
he  's  taken  a  philanthropic  interest  in  her  fa- 
ther? One  would  think  you  'd  been  raised  in 
Oshkosh  or  Milpitas,  to  hear  the  things  you 
sometimes  say.  But  that  's  not  all.  This 
morning  I  was  in  the  Woman's  Exchange,  and 
who  should  be  there  but  old  Biddy  McCormick 
herself.  I  can't  endure  her,  you  know,  espe- 
cially since  she  's  got  this  little  prince-creature 
up  her  sleeve ;  but  I  'm  always  polite  to  her  be- 
cause of  Tod  and  you— and  things  generally. 
You  never  can  tell  what  may  happen.  And  I 
heard  her  say,  'Not  that  jam;  I  always  buy 
the  same  kind— Miss  Viola  Reed's.'  So  I  up 
and  said,  as  innocent  as  Mary's  little  lamb,  *  Do 
tell  me,  Mrs.  McCormick,  what  jam  that  is 
you  're  buying.  Everything  you  have  is  always 
so  delicious.'  And  she  said,  '  It 's  some  that 's 
made  by  a  woman  named  Reed,  who  lives 
across  town  somewhere.'  Then,  when  she  'd 
gone,  I  corralled  the  girl,  and  she  told  me  it  was 
made  by  a  Miss  Viola  Reed,  who  lives—" 

Mrs.  Gault  opened  her  jeweled  card-case  and 
produced   a   slip    of   paper   with   an    address 


HARD-PAN  83 

written  on  it.  She  handed  this  to  Letitia,  and 
said  with  an  air  of  triumph : 

"  That  's  where  she  lives.  Now  you  '11  have 
to  admit,  Miss  Letitia  Mason,  that  there  are  no 
flies  on  your  little  sister !  " 

Letitia  looked  at  the  address  and  gave  it  back. 

"  No,"  said  her  sister ;  "  you  keep  it.  That 's 
my  little  scheme.  You  're  to  go  there  now— 
this  afternoon— and  order  jam.     Do  you  see  ? " 

"But  I  don't  want  any  jam,  and  you  never 
eat  it." 

"Good  gracious,  Tishy,  how  awfully  stupid 
you  are  to-day !  What  a  fortunate  thing  it  is 
that  you  and  Mortimer  have  got  me  to  take 
care  of  you !  Of  course  you  don't  want  jam. 
I  never  heard  of  any  civilized  being  who  did. 
But  I  suppose  you  '11  admit  that  you  want  to 
see  this  girl  ? " 

"  I  don't  think  I  do,"  said  Letitia.  "  I  don't 
see  why  I  should." 

"  Well,  I  do,"  said  Mrs.  Gault,  with  asperity. 
"Don't  you  take  an  interest  in  John?  Don't 
you  want  to  see  if  he  's  fallen  into  the  clutches 
of  an  adventuress  ? " 

"She  does  n't  sound  at  all  like  an  adven- 
turess, Maud.  I  never  heard  of  an  adventuress 
making  jam  for  her  living." 

"Jam  for  her  living!  Bosh!  Can't  you 
imagine  how  she  tells  that  to  John,  and  shows 
him  the  glasses  in  the  corner  cupboard,  and 


84  HARD-PAN 

lets  him  find  her  stirring  things  in  a  big  pot  on 
the  kitchen  stove  ?  Oh,  she 's  no  fool,  my  dear ! 
Will  you  go  and  see  her  I " 

"  I  'd  rather  not." 

"Very  well,  then;  if  you  care  so  little  for 
John,  yon  need  n't  go.  I  '11  do  it  myself,  and 
I  can  tell  you,  I  '11  size  her  up." 

Letitia  looked  uneasy.  She  knew  nothing 
of  Miss  Reed  except  that  she  was  poor  and 
pretty.  But  she  did  not  like  the  thought  of 
subjecting  even  an  unknown  female  to  Mrs. 
Gault's  mercies,  when  her  interest  was  so  evi- 
dently hostile  and  her  curiosity  so  poignant. 

"If  you  think  somebody  must  go,  then  I 
will,"  she  said  pacifically.  "  I  don't  see  the  use 
of  it,  but  I  can  go  better  than  you." 

"All  right,"  said  Mrs.  Gault,  immediately 
placated.  "  You  'd  better  go  now.  It 's  always 
best  to  do  a  thing  when  you  have  the  oppor- 
tunity." 

"No,"  said  Letitia;  "I  don't  think  I  '11  do 
that." 

"  Why  not  1  Is  it  possible  you  're  so  crazy 
to  see  that  miserable  little  prince  that  I  could 
put  in  my  hat-box  1 " 

"  I  don't  care  about  him,"  answered  the  girl, 
with  unmoved  placidity.  "  I  don't  like  to  go- 
to go  this  way."  She  made  an  explanatory  ges- 
ture toward  her  dress. 

Mrs.  Gault  looked  at  her  uncomprehendingly. 


HARD-PAN  85 

"  Why !    What 's  wrong  about  your  clothes ! " 

It  was  painful,  but  Letitia  had  to  explain : 

"  If  she 's  so  poor  as  all  that— and  everybody 
says  so— I  don't  think  it  's— it  's— quite  nice, 
some  way  or  other,  for  me  to  go  in  this  dress." 
Her  voice  took  on  a  sudden  tone  of  decision. 
"  I  won't  do  it,  anyway." 

Her  sister  knew  the  tone,  and  knew  that 
there  was  no  use  in  combating  the  mood  it 
indicated. 

"You  have  the  queerest  notions,"  she  said, 
with  a  resigned  sigh;  "but  do  as  you  like. 
It  's  all  the  same,  if  you  do  go  to-morrow. 
Only  you  must  promise  that  you  won't  back 
out." 

Letitia  promised. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  next  day  she  stood 
before  her  glass  and  critically  eyed  her  reflec- 
tion. She  had  put  on  a  plain  tailor-made  suit, 
which  fitted  her  heavily  molded  figure  with 
unwrinkled  smoothness.  A  brown  turban 
crowned  her  reddish  hair,  and  the  exquisite 
pallor  of  her  skin  was  obscured  by  a  thin 
veil.  Letitia  did  not  approve  of  herself  in  this 
modest  garb.  She  accepted  the  dictum  that 
"beauty  should  go  beautifully."  But  for  the 
mission  upon  which  she  was  bound  she  had 
selected  her  attire  with  an  eye  to  its  fitness  and 
propriety. 

It  was  a  gray  afternoon,  with  a  breath  of  fog 


86  HARD-PAN 

in  the  air.  Already  the  city  was  beginning  to 
show  signs  of  the  summer  exodus,  and  Letitia 
was  glad  that  in  her  journey  across  town  she 
met  no  acquaintances  and  attracted  no  more 
attention  than  that  frankly  candid  stare  which 
is  male  California's  passing  tribute  to  beauty. 

Though  she  had  been  born  in  South  Park,  she 
knew  nothing  of  this  side  of  the  city,  and  found 
herself  as  much  a  stranger  as  its  inhabitants 
would  have  been  had  they  been  transported  to 
the  aristocratic  heart  of  the  Western  Addition. 
Finally,  however,  after  some  questioning  of 
small  boys  and  much  retracing  of  steps,  she 
found  the  house,  and  walked  up  the  path  with 
the  black-and-white  flagging. 

Letitia  was  one  to  whom  the  word  "  shyness  " 
has  no  meaning.  She  possessed  her  full  share 
of  the  Westerner's  placid  self -approval,  and 
with  it  that  careless  curiosity  which  makes  an 
incursion  into  new  surroundings  interesting. 
Yet,  as  she  stood  waiting  for  the  door  to  open, 
she  experienced  a  sensation  of  nervousness  quite 
new  to  her.  Her  heart  had  ached  more  in  the 
last  twenty-four  hours  than  it  had  since  her 
mother's  death,  years  before.  If  Viola  Eeed 
was  an  adventuress  or  if  she  was  a  saint,  the 
situation  was  equally  painful  to  this  splendid- 
looking  creature,  who,  for  all  her  regal  air  and 
stately  immobility  of  demeanor,  was  only  a 
woman  of  a  simple,  almost  primitive  type. 


HARD-PAN  87 

The  door  was  opened  by  Viola,  in  her  blue 
gingham  dress  and  her  apron.  At  the  sight 
of  her  visitor  she  looked  startled  almost  into 
speechlessness.  Letitia  announced  the  fact 
that  she  had  come  on  business,  and  an  invi- 
tation to  enter  brought  her  sweeping  into  the 
little  hall  and  the  drawing-room  beyond. 

Here  the  two  girls  looked  at  each  other  for 
one  of  those  swift  exploring  moments  in  which 
women  seem  to  take  in  every  detail  of  dress, 
every  peculiarity  of  feature  and  revealing 
change  of  expression,  that  a  rival  has  to  show. 
Letitia,  with  all  her  apparent  heaviness,  had 
keen  perceptions.  With  a  sinking  at  her  heart 
she  saw  the  beauty  of  the  gray  eyes  fastened 
shyly  upon  her,  and  realized  what  must  be  the 
power  of  the  delicate  charm,  so  far  removed  in 
its  soft,  dependent  femininity  from  her  own. 
She  saw  that  this  girl  had  a  distinguishing  re- 
finement she  could  never  boast,  and  that  it  was 
strong  enough  to  triumph  over  such  poverty- 
stricken  surroundings  as,  in  all  her  experience, 
she  had  never  before  encountered.  Her  quick 
eye  took  in  the  gaunt  emptiness  of  the  room 
as  John  Gault's  could  not  have  done  in  a  week's 
arduous  examination.  She  saw  the  split  and 
ragged  shades  in  the  windows,  the  ribs  of  twine 
in  the  old  carpet,  the  rents  in  the  colonel's 
chair. 

Viola,  for  her  part,  saw  one  of  the  handsomest 


88  HARD-PAN 

and  most  imposing  young  women  she  had  ever 
gazed  upon.  The  very  way  Letitia  rustled 
when  she  moved,  and  exhaled  a  faint  perfume 
with  every  movement,  seemed  to  breathe  an 
atmosphere  of  fashion  and  elegance.  She  had 
never  seen  her  before,  and  had  no  idea  who  she 
was.  Letitia  soon  put  an  end  to  this  condition 
of  ignorance. 

"My  name  is  Mason,"  she  said  judicially— 
"  Letitia  Mason.  I  am  the  sister  of  Mrs.  Mor- 
timer Gault." 

At  this  announcement  an  instantaneous 
change  took  place  in  Viola.  For  a  second  she 
looked  alarmed,  then  her  face  stiffened  into 
lines  of  pride  and  anger.  The  eyes  that  had 
been  so  full  of  a  naive  admiration  were 
charged,  as  by  magic,  with  a  look  of  cold  an- 
tagonism. Letitia  felt  her  own  breath  quicken 
as  she  realized  how  much  the  name  of  Gault 
must  mean  to  this  girl. 

Viola  attempted  no  answer  to  the  introduc- 
tion, and  Miss  Mason  hastily  went  on : 

"My  sister  heard  that  you  made  jam — very 
good  jam.  We  don't  like  what  we  get  in  the 
stores,  so  we  thought  we  would  try  yours." 

Viola  had  now  found  her  voice,— a  very  low 
and  cold  one, — and  answered: 

"You  can  get  it  at  the  Woman's  Exchange. 
I  sell  it  there  all  the  time." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  said  Letitia;  "but  we 


HARD-PAN  89 

thought  it  would  be  better  to  buy  it  straight 
from  you ;  that— perhaps— it— perhaps  it  would 
save  time  and  trouble." 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  could  do  that.  This  part 
of  town  is  a  long  distance  out  of  everybody's 
way." 

"Yes,  of  course  it  is,"  the  other  agreed 
eagerly ;  then,  with  a  sudden  happy  inspiration, 
"  but  I  thought  you  might  have  a  larger  variety 
here— that  you  might  have  a  good  many 
different  kinds  on  hand.  I  don't  want  all  the 
same  sort." 

Viola  rose  and  went  to  the  door  that  led  to 
the  dining-room.  Her  resentment  was  not  more 
obvious  than  her  embarrassment.  There  was 
something  tremulous  in  the  expression  of  her 
face  that  gave  Letitia  a  wretched  feeling  that 
only  pride  enabled  her  to  keep  back  her  tears. 

"  I  have  just  the  same  here  that  I  have  at  the 
Exchange,"  she  said,  opening  the  doors. 

The  visitor  followed  her.  In  the  gray  of  the 
afternoon  the  long  room,  with  its  tiers  of  plants 
and  its  bare  sideboard  and  mantelpiece,  looked 
even  colder  and  drearier  than  the  drawing- 
room.  Viola  opened  a  cupboard  and  indicated 
the  lines  of  glass  jars  standing  on  the  shelves. 
She  tried  to  be  businesslike,  and  told  their 
contents  and  prices,  but  her  voice  betrayed  her. 
Letitia,  listening  to  her  and  staring  at  the  Chi- 
nese cracker- jar  that  was  the  sole  adornment 


90  HARD-PAN 

of  the  sideboard,  suddenly  felt  sick  with  dis- 
gust at  herself  for  intruding,  at  her  sister,  at 
John  Gault. 

As  Viola's  voice  went  on,—"  These  are  apri- 
cots ;  they  're  fifty  cents.  Those  on  that  shelf 
are  strawberry  and  raspberry;  they  are  only 
thirty,"— Letitia's  shame  and  indignation 
worked  up  to  a  climax  and  a  resultant 
resolution. 

She  took  up  one  of  the  glasses  and,  looking 
at  the  legend  written  in  neat  script  on  the 
paper  top,  said: 

"  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  you  how  I  happened 
to  come  here.  It  's  really  a  secret  and  you 
must  n't  tell.  What  I  said  at  first  was  not 
quite  the  case.  No  one  at  our  house  knows 
anything  about  this  but  me.  I  'm  going  to  buy 
these  preserves  for  my  brother-in-law  and  tell 
him  I  made  them.  I  'm  going  to  fool  him.  Do 
you  understand?     It 's  just  a  little  joke." 

Letitia  delivered  herself  of  this  amazing 
effort  at  invention  with  admirable  composure, 
for  it  was  the  first  elaborate  and  important 
falsehood  she  had  ever  told  in  her  life.  Viola, 
turning  from  her  contemplation  of  the  shelves, 
looked  at  her,  relieved  but  not  quite  compre- 
hending. 

"So  I  hunted  you  up  myself  at  the  Ex- 
change," continued  Letitia,  plunging  deeper 
into  the  slough  of  deception,  but  knowing  now 


HARD-PAN  91 

that  she  had  gone  too  far  to  compromise  with 
truth,  "  and  came  here  myself  this  way  so  as  to 
keep  it  all  dark." 

Viola's  face  had  cleared  with  each  word.  As 
the  other  ended,  her  lips  parted  in  the  smile 
that  John  Gault  found  at  once  so  irresistible 
and  so  enigmatic.  Letitia  found  nothing  enig- 
matic in  it.  She  only  thought,  with  a  piercing 
dart  of  pain,  "She  is  still  prettier  when  she 
smiles." 

"  It  's  very  amusing,"  said  Viola ;  "  but  why 
do  you  want  to  fool  him  1 " 

Letitia  was  even  ready  for  this,  so  expert 
does  the  first  lie  make  us  in  perpetrating  the 
second. 

"  He  says  I  am  useless  and  can't  do  anything. 
I  am  going  to  show  him  that  I  can  make  jam." 

Viola  was  rather  shocked,  but  relief  and 
amusement  combined  to  make  her  light-hearted, 
and  this  time  she  laughed. 

"  But  the  writing,"  she  said.  "  Won't  he  see 
by  that  that  it  's  not  yours !  There  's  writing 
on  every  glass." 

"Oh,  that  will  be  all  right.  I  '11  have  the 
Chinaman  put  it  out  in  a  dish.  But  you  '11 
promise  not  to  give  me  away  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  never  will,"  said  Viola.  "  In  fact,"  she 
continued  naively,  "I  'd  rather  have  it  that 
way  myself.  You  see,  many  people— all  people, 
that  is— don't  know  that  I  do  this." 


92  HARD-PAN 

She  stopped  and  looked  tentatively  at  Letitia, 
as  if  curious  to  see  how  she  was  taking  these 
revelations. 

"Do  what!"  asked  Letitia,  not  under- 
standing. 

"Make  the  jam.  Not  that  I  mind  much. 
But  it 's  a  little  sort  of  fancy  of  my  father's. 
Sometimes  older  people  have  those  ideas,  and 
it 's  best  to  humor  them,  I  think ;  don't  you ! " 

"Oh,  much  the  best,"  assented  the  other, 
turning  aside  and  looking  at  the  plants.  "  It 's 
best  to  humor  everybody ;  it 's  so  much  easier 
to  get  on.    What  beautiful  ferns !  " 

"Yes;  I  am  quite  proud  of  them.  But  this 
is  a  splendid  window  for  ferns." 

"  Did  you  raise  these  yourself  1  I  never  saw 
such  plants  out  of  a  greenhouse." 

Viola  was  now  eagerly  interested. 

"  Yes,  I  grew  them  all— some  of  them  from 
a  few  roots  like  black  threads.  I  sell  these, 
too.  There  is  a  man  at  one  of  the  Kearney 
Street  florists'  who  used  to  live  near  here  and 
knew  us,  and  he  buys  them  from  me.  At 
Christmas  I  do  quite  well." 

Letitia  examined  the  ferns. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  would  let  me  buy  one  or 
two  of  them,"  she  said.  "We  can't  get  such 
plants  at  our  florist's,  and  I  am  fonder  of  them 
than  of  any  other  kind  of  fern." 

Viola  agreed  with  a  blush  of  pleasure,  and 


HARD-PAN  93 

after  some  consultation  four  ferns  were  selected. 
The  visitor  was  amazed  at  their  cheapness,  but 
concealed  her  astonishment.  Then  she  bought 
three  dozen  jars  of  the  jam.  She  did  not  pay 
for  them,  but  said  that  on  the  following  day 
she  would  send  the  money  by  a  messenger,  who 
would  also  bring  away  the  purchases. 

Standing  in  the  doorway,  about  to  leave,  she 
said: 

"  I  'm  glad  to  have  seen  you.  It 's  so  inter- 
esting for  a  person  like  me,  who  can't  do  any- 
thing, to  meet  some  one  who  is  clever  and  of  use 
in  the  world.  Good-by ! "  She  held  out  her 
hand,  and  Viola,  surprised,  put  hers  into  it. 
"  Don't  forget  to  keep  our  secret.  It  makes  a 
person  feel  like  a  conspirator,  does  n't  it!  I 
think,  too.  Colonel  Reed  's  quite  right  to  want 
to  be  reticent  about  business  matters.  So  you 
and  I  '11  keep  dark  about  this  little  transaction 
of  ours." 

This  was  the  most  diplomatic  sentence  Le- 
titia  had  ever  given  vent  to  in  her  life. 

She  walked  slowly  away  from  the  house,  her 
eyes  downcast  in  thought.  The  superb  health 
she  had  inherited  from  an  untainted  peasant 
ancestry  made  her  imagination  dull,  and  light- 
ened such  sufferings  as  she  had  encountered  in 
her  easy,  care-free  life.  Even  now  she  experi- 
enced none  of  those  fierce  pangs  that  jealousy 
and  disappointed  love  provoke  in  the  women 


94  HARD-PAN 

of  a  more  sophisticated  stock.  She  was  made 
on  that  large,  calm  plan  on  which  an  all- wise 
nature  creates  the  maternal  woman — she  whose 
destiny  it  is  to  bear  strong  children  to  a  stal- 
wart sire.  But  this  afternoon,  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life,  she  knew  what  it  was  to  feel 
her  heart  lying  heavy  in  her  breast  like  a  thing 
of  stone. 

It  was  late  when  she  reached  home.  Mrs. 
Gault  was  to  give  a  dinner  that  evening,  and  as 
Letitia  passed  through  the  hall  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  sister,  in  a  loose  creation  of  pink 
silk  and  lace,  which  swelled  out  behind  her  like 
a  sail,  hurrying  round  the  bedecked  dining- 
table,  followed  by  two  meek  and  attentive  Chi- 
namen. Knowing  the  indignation  of  Maud 
should  she  be  late,  she  ran  to  her  room  and 
made  her  toilet  with  the  utmost  speed. 

She  was  just  completing  this  important  rite, 
and,  seated  at  her  dressing-table  under  a  blaze  of 
electric  light,  was  selecting  an  aigret  for  her  hair, 
when  the  door  opened  and  Mrs.  Grault  entered. 

She  had  discarded  her  ebullient  draperies  of 
pink  silk,  and  was  sheathed  tightly  in  her  fa- 
vorite yellow,  from  which  the  olive  skin  of  her 
bared  neck  emerged  in  polished  smoothness. 
As  she  came  forward  she  had  one  hand  full  of 
diamond  brooches,  which  she  pinned  with  ap- 
parent carelessness  round  the  edge  of  the  low 
bodice. 


HARD-PAN  95 

"  Well,  Tishy,"  she  said,  sitting  down  by  the 
dressing-table,  "  what  happened  I " 

Letitia  looked  at  the  array  of  silver  that  cov- 
ered the  table.  Some  jewels  lay  scattered 
among  it,  and  the  aigrets  from  which  she  had 
been  about  to  choose  the  one  she  should  wear. 
She  selected  a  black  one,  and  turned  it  round, 
looking  at  it. 

"  Nothing  happened,"  she  answered.  "  I  saw 
her,  and  bought  the  jam  and  some  plants.  She 
raises  plants,  too." 

"  Is  she  really  so  pretty  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very— I  think  some  people  might  say 
beautiful.". 

Mrs.  Gault's  face  fell. 

"  She  did  n't  say  anything  about  John,  I 
suppose  ? " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Did  it  seem  to  you  that  there  was  anything 
adventuressy  or  bad  about  her  I " 

Letitia  looked  at  her  sister— a  sidelong  look, 
which  made  Mrs.  Gault  feel  rather  uncom- 
fortable. 

"  I  never  saw  any  one  in  my  life  that  looked 
to  me  less  so,"  she  answered. 

"  Dear  me ! "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Gault,  in  a  dis- 
mayed tone.  "  You  don't  say  so  !  Tishy,  for 
goodness'  sake,  look  where  you  're  putting  that 
aigret!  You  look  like  Pocahontas,  and  Tod 
McCormick  's  coming  to  dinner." 


96  HARD-PAN 

Letitia  arranged  the  aigret  at  a  more  satis- 
factory angle,  her  large  white  arms,  shining 
like  marble  through  the  transparent  tissue  of 
her  sleeves,  shielding  her  face. 

"Then,"  said  Mrs.  Gault,  returning  to  the 
more  important  subject,  "  there  really  may  be 
a  chance  of  his  marrying  her." 

"  I  should  think  a  very  good  one,"  answered 
Letitia,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Grood  heavens !  "  breathed  her  sister,  in  the 
undertone  of  utter  horror,  "how  awful  men 
are!  What  makes  you  think  he  may  intend 
marrying  her  1 " 

"Because,"  said  Letitia,  droppiu^  her  arms 
and  turning  on  her  sister  with  her  mouth 
trembling  and  her  breast  agitated  with  sudden 
emotion,  "no  man  who  was  any  sort  of  a  man 
could  mean  anything  else." 

Maud  Grault  was  amazed  by  the  girl's  unex- 
pected emotion.  She  pushed  back  her  chair, 
and  staring  at  Letitia,  said  vaguely : 

"  Why  ?    I  don't  understand." 

"  Even  if  he  did  n't  care,  even  if  he  did  n't 
love  her,  he  'd  marry  her.  Oh,  Maud,  she  's 
so  helpless  and  so  poor ! " 

And  Letitia  burst  into  a  sudden  storm  of  tears. 

For  a  moment  her  sister  sat  still,  looking  at 
her  in  blank  amazement.  Then  she  felt  a  pang 
of  feminine  sympathy.  So  Letitia  did  care  for 
him.     Poor  Tishy! 


HARD-PAN  97 

"  There,  don't  cry ! "  she  said,  patting  her 
shoulder.  "You  never  can  tell  about  these 
things.  John  may  not  care  a  button  for  this 
girl,  or  have  the  least  intention  of  marrying 
her.  You  're  always  seeing  the  dark  side  of 
things." 

But  her  form  of  consolation  was  not  well 
chosen.  Letitia  threw  off  the  hand  and  raised 
her  disfigured  face. 

"  John  may  be  selfish  and  mean  and  all  that, 
and  I  've  no  doubt  he  is;  but  he  's  not  mean 
enough,  he  's  not  contemptible  enough,  to  do 
what  you  think  he  's  doing.  I  '11  not  believe 
that  of  him.  I  'd  despise  him  if  I  thought  so ; 
I  'd  hate  him !  " 

Her  tears  burst  forth  afresh,  and  she  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

Mrs.  Grault  was  nonplussed.  She  looked  at 
her  sister's  shaken  shoulders  and  bowed  head 
with  an  uncomprehending  but  pitying  eye. 
Then,  as  Letitia's  sobs  diminished,  she  said 
gloomily : 

" How  much  jam  did  you  buy?" 

"Three  dozen  glasses,"  came  the  mufSed 
answer. 

"  Good  gracious  !  "—raising  her  eyes  toward 
the  ceiling  in  an  access  of  horror.  "  What  did 
you  get  so  much  for?  Two  or  three  would 
have  done.  We  '11  not  get  through  that  by 
Christmas."    There  was  no   answer  made  to 


98  HARD-PAN 

this,  and  after  a  moment  or  two  of  silence  Mrs. 
Gault  recommenced,  in  a  brisk  and  unemo- 
tional tone : 

"  I  don't  understand  you  at  all,  Tisliy ;  but  I 
do  know  that  if  you  don't  stop  crying  you  '11 
look  a  perfect  fright  at  dinner,  and  everybody 
will  be  wondering  what 's  the  matter  with  you." 

This  appeal  to  her  pride  had  a  good  effect 
upon  Letitia.  She  struggled  with  her  tears 
and  finally  subdued  them.  But  her  flushed  and 
swollen  countenance  needed  much  attention, 
and  when  Mrs.  Gault  left  the  room  she  carried 
with  her  a  picture  of  her  sister  sitting  before 
the  mirror  solicitously  dabbing  at  her  eyelids 
with  a  powder-puf£. 

When  she  appeared  all  traces  of  her  previous 
distress  seemed  successfully  obliterated.  It  re- 
mained for  the  eye  of  love  to  penetrate  the 
restorative  processes  with  which  she  had  doc- 
tored her  telltale  countenance. 

Near  the  end  of  dinner  Tod  McCormick,  who 
sat  beside  her,  leaned  toward  her  and  said,  in 
the  low  tone  of  long-established  friendship : 

"What 's  the  matter,  Tishyl  You  look  sort 
of  bunged  up." 

Letitia  said  nothing  was  the  matter— why ! 

The  small,  red-rimmed  eyes  of  Tod  passed 
over  her  face,  lingering  with  the  solicitude  of 
affection  upon  the  delicately  pink  eyelids  and 
nostrils. 


HARD-PAN  99 

"You  look  as  if  you  'd  been  crying,"  lie 
said. 

"  Oh,  what  a  silly  idea ! "  answered  Letitia, 
with  a  laugh  that  would  have  been  quite  suc- 
cessful on  the  stage,  but  could  not  deceive  the 
enamoured  Tod ;  "  I  have  a  cold." 

"  It 's  not  that  you  don't  look  as  pretty  as 
usual.  No  matter  what  you  did,  you  'd  always 
be  out  o'  sight.  But  it  just  gives  me  the 
willies  to  think  of  your  being  down  on  your 
luck.    Honest— I  can't  stand  it." 

Letitia  looked  away,  more  to  avert  her  face 
from  his  searching  gaze  than  from  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Everybody  gets  blue  now  and  then,"  she 
said  carelessly. 

"But  you  ought  n't  to.  I  'm  the  one  that 
ought  to  get  blue— black  and  blue." 

"  I  guess  we  all  do,  more  or  less." 

"  If  you  'd  just  ease  up  on  the  way  you  keep 
giving  me  the  marble  heart,"  continued  Tod, 
dropping  his  voice  to  the  key  of  tenderness, 
"  I  'd  see  to  it  that  there  'd  never  be  a  thing  to 
make  you  blue.  Everything  would  go  your 
way.     I  'd  see  to  it." 

Letitia  looked  at  him  with  a  little  vexed 
frown. 

"  Dear  me,  Tod !  "  she  said  crossly,  "  you  're 
not  going  to  propose  to  me  here  at  dinner,  are 
you,  with  everybody  listening,  too!" 


100  HARD-PAN 

Tod  looked  round  rather  guiltily.  Letitia 
had  exaggerated.  The  only  person  who  ap- 
peared to  be  noticing  them  was  Mrs.  Mortimer 
Gault,  and  her  glance  immediately  slipped 
away  from  his  to  give  the  signal  for  withdrawal 
to  a  lady  at  the  other  end  of  the  table. 


IV 


THE  colonel's  visits  now  followed  John 
Gault's  with  businesslike  regularity.  One 
week  from  the  afternoon  when  the  younger 
man  had  paid  his  last  call,  Colonel  Reed  had 
made  his  customary  appearance  and  proffered 
his  customary  request. 

With  each  succeeding  gift  of  money  his 
spirits  seemed  to  rise,  his  gracious  bonhomie 
to  become  more  pronounced.  Upon  this  occa- 
sion he  had  said  cheerfully,  as  he  dropped  the 
pieces  of  gold  into  his  old  chamois-skin  purse : 

"It  's  these  unconscionable  tradespeople 
that  eat  up  our  resources  !  Why  can't  a  provi- 
dent government  arrange  things  so  that  we 
don't  have  to  pay  butchers  and  bakers  and  milk- 
men? Life  would  be  so  much  better  worth 
while  if  we  could  spend  our  money  on  clothes 
and  books  and  entertaining  our  friends  than  in 
paying  bills.  Now,  this  "—jingling  the  gold  in 
the  purse—"  goes  to  a  son  of  Belial  who  sells  us 
groceries  on  tick." 

"Very  kind  of  him,  I  should  say,"  said  the 


102  HARD-PAN 

other.  "  Are  n't  j^ou  rather  lucky  to  have  such 
good  credit  1 " 

"  Well,  that 's  what  I  think,"  said  the  colonel, 
throwing  back  his  head  and  laughing  like  an 
old  prince  in  whom  the  joy  of  life  and  the  de- 
sire of  the  eyes  still  burned  strong ;  "  but  Viola 
thinks  credit  is  a  trap  set  by  the  king  of  all  the 
devils." 

"Women  are  apt  to  be  cautious  about  that 
sort  of  thing." 

"  I  don't  know  about  all  women,  but  Viola  is. 
She  is  more  afraid  of  credit  than  she  is  of  small- 
pox. But  I  say  to  her:  'My  dear,  look  where 
we  would  have  been  without  it !  And  as  long 
as  these  good,  charitable  souls  will  give  us  food 
and  drink  for  nothing,  for  goodness'  sake  let 
them  do  it.  Don't  let 's  try  and  suppress  such 
a  worthy  impulse.'  Not,  of  course,"  said  the 
colonel,  growing  suddenly  grave  and  squaring 
his  shoulders,  "that  we  don't  intend  to  pay 
them.  We  always  do.  Sometimes,  it  is  true, 
we  're  rather  slow  about  it;  but  eventually 
things  are  squared  off  to  everybody's  satisfac- 
tion.    How  else  could  we  have  the  credit!" 

He  asked  this  question  with  an  air  of  triumph 
that,  to  the  listener,  seemed  to  have  something 
in  it  of  conscious  cunning.  Gault  answered 
with  a  commonplace  about  the  advantage  of 
inspiring  so  great  a  trust  in  the  vulgar  mind. 
The  colonel  was  openly  gratified. 


HARD-PAN  103 

"  Oh,"  he  said,  as  he  moved  toward  the  door, 
"there  's  something  in  the  name  of  Ramsay- 
Reed  yet.  But  not  enough,"  he  added,  laugh- 
ing with  a  miscliievous  appreciation  of  the 
humor  of  his  misfortunes,  "  to  let  a  grocery  bill 
run  on  indefinitely.  There  was  a  day  when 
my  name  was  good  for  any  length  of  time— but 
that  was  thirty  years  ago." 

Then  he  left,  smiling  and  happy,  and  on  the 
way  home  bought  a  pot  of  pate  de  foie  gras,  a 
bottle  of  claret,  and  a  handkerchief  with  an 
embroidered  edge  for  Viola.  At  the  grocery 
store  on  the  corner  of  the  street  where  he  lived 
he  stopped  and  paid  twenty  dollars  on  his  bill, 
and  then  fared  up  the  street  with  rapid  strides, 
all  agog  with  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  Viola's 
delight  in  his  present,  and  the  jolly  little  sup- 
per they  would  have  on  the  end  of  the  kitchen 
table. 

The  man  who  had  made  these  innocent  plea- 
sures possible  was  far  from  enjoying  those  sen- 
sations of  gratification  said  to  be  experienced 
by  a  cheerful  giver. 

He  had  begun  to  know  very  dark  hours. 
His  first  great  love,  come  tardily  and  reluc- 
tantly, at  an  age  when  the  heart  is  almost 
closed  to  soft  influences  and  the  mind  is  hard- 
ened with  much  worldly  contact,  had  come 
poisoned  with  torturing  suspicions,  with  shame 
for  his  own  weakness,  with  fears  of  the  truth. 


104  HARD-PAN 

Had  lie  been  a  stronger  man  he  would  have 
torn  up  by  the  roots  this  passion  for  a  woman 
he  dared  not  trust,  have  gone  away  and  tried 
to  forget.  But  the  lifelong  habit  of  self-indul- 
gence was  too  powerful  to  be  broken.  He  did 
not  want  to  try  and  live  without  the  charm  and 
torment  of  Viola's  presence.  Had  he  been 
weaker  he  would  have  yielded  to  the  spell, 
never  dared  to  question,  and  gone  on  blindly 
into  the  purgatory  of  those  who  love  and  doubt. 
All  his  life  he  had  retained  an  ideal  of  woman- 
hood—a creature  aloof  from  the  coarseness  of 
worldly  ambition  and  vulgar  greed.  Now  he 
found  himself  bound  to  one  the  breath  of 
whose  life  seemed  to  be  tainted  with  duplicity 
and  sordid  intrigue. 

At  times  his  state  of  uncertainty  became  in- 
tolerable. Then  he  resolved  to  go  to  her,  take 
her  hands  in  his,  and  looking  into  her  eyes,  ask 
for  the  truth.  But  the  world's  lessons  of  a 
conventional  reserve,  a  well-bred  reticence,  as- 
serted their  claims,  and  he  found  himself  con- 
templating, with  ironical  bitterness,  this  picture 
of  his  own  simplicity.  If  they  were  deceiving 
him,  how  they  would  laugh— laugh  together— at 
the  folly  of  the  pigeon  they  were  plucking  so 
cleverly!  A  life's  experience,  caution,  cyni- 
cism, had  gone  down  into  dust  before  a  girl's 
gray  eyes.  Could  she  be  false  and  those  eyes 
look  into  his  so  frankly  and  honestly?    Could 


HARD-PAN  105 

those  lips,  that  folded  on  each  other  in  curves 
so  full  of  innocence  and  truth,  be  ready  with 
words  of  hypocrisy  and  deceit  ?  When  he  was 
with  her  such  thoughts  seemed  madness ;  when 
he  was  away  from  her  his  belief  seemed  a  mis- 
erable infatuation. 

After  the  colonel's  last  appearance  he  again 
determined  to  try  and  see  her  alone.  This,  he 
discovered,  was  not  as  easy  of  accomplishment 
as  it  had  been  on  his  first  attempt.  Arriving 
at  the  house  at  four  o'clock,  he  rang  repeat- 
edly, but  was  not  able  to  gain  admittance.  At 
last  a  small  boy,  who  had  been  studying  him 
through  the  bars  of  the  gate,  volunteered  the 
information  that  the  lady  was  out. 

Gault  turned  away,  and  coming  down  the 
flagged  walk,  asked  the  child  if  he  knew  what 
direction  she  had  taken. 

"  I  dunno  that,"  said  the  boy,  "  but  she  went 
out  with  her  basket,  and  when  she  goes  with 
her  basket  she  generally  stays  a  long  while." 

Gault  rewarded  him  for  his  information  with 
a  piece  of  money,  and  turned  down  the  street 
toward  the  other  side  of  town. 

It  was  a  windy  afternoon.  The  trades  were 
just  beginning,  and  their  clear,  chill  sweep  had 
already  borne  away  some  of  the  evil  odors 
which  hung  about  the  old  portion  of  the  city. 
Gault  could  feel  the  touch  of  fog  in  their  buoy- 
ant breath,  and  knew  that  long  tongues  of  it 


106  HARD-PAN 

like  white  wool  were  stealing  in  through  the 
Golden  Gate.  The  city  was  putting  on  its 
summer  aspect— a  gray  glare,  softened  by  the 
mingling  of  dust  and  haze  that  rode  the  breezes. 
Bits  of  paper,  rags,  and  straws  were  collected 
at  corners  in  little  whirling  heaps.  Presently 
the  mightier  winds  would  come,  winging  their 
way  across  miles  of  heaving  seas  to  rush  down 
the  street  in  a  mad  carouse,  carrying  before 
them  the  dirt  and  refuse  and  odors  and  un- 
cleanness  which  mark  the  dwelling  of  man. 

He  had  walked  some  distance  when,  round- 
ing a  corner,  a  sharp  gust  seized  him.  In  its 
fierce  exultation  it  threw  a  whirlwind  of  dust 
into  his  eyes,  so  that,  for  a  moment,  he  did  not 
see  that  she  was  coming  toward  him.  Then  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  approaching  figure  and 
recognized  it.  She  did  not  see  him,  but  was 
engaged  in  her  customary  amusement  of  look- 
ing into  the  gardens.  There  was  an  air  of 
unmistakable  alertness  and  gaiety  about  her. 
Her  hand  tapped  the  tops  of  the  fence-rails  as 
she  came,  and  she  looked  at  the  floral  display 
behind  them  with  happy  eyes.  Her  scanty 
black  skirt  was  sometimes  whirled  round  her 
feet,  showing  her  small  ankles  and  narrow  rus- 
set shoes.  Once  she  had  to  put  up  her  hand 
to  her  hat,— a  white  sailor  bound  with  a  dark 
ribbon,— and  the  frolicsome  wind  swept  all  the 
loosened  ends  of  her  hair  forward  and  lashed 


HARD-PAN  107 

her  skirts  out  on  either  side.  She  had  a  basket 
on  one  arm,  and  holding  this  firmly,  leaned 
back  almost  on  the  wind,  laughing  to  herself. 

At  the  same  moment  she  caught  sight  of  him. 
The  wind  dropped  suddenly,  as  if  conscious 
that  she  should  not  be  presented  in  such  bois- 
terous guise  to  a  lover's  eye,  and  her  figure 
seemed  to  fall  back  into  lines  of  decorous  de- 
mureness ;  only  the  color  and  laughter  of  her 
recent  buffeting  still  remained  in  her  face. 

"  Is  it  you  ? "  she  cried.  "  Did  you  see  me  in 
the  wind?     Is  n't  it  fun?" 

They  met,  and  he  took  her  hand.  She  was 
all  blown  about,  but  fresh  as  a  flower  that  has 
shaken  off  the  dew.  The  contrast  between 
them,  between  what  might  be  called  their  dif- 
ferent ranks  in  society,  was  much  more  clearly 
marked  in  the  open  light  of  the  street  than  in 
the  ragged  homeliness  of  her  own  parlor. 

While  he  was  essentially  the  man  of  luxuri- 
ous environment  and  assured  position,  she  pre- 
sented the  appearance  of  a  working-girl.  Even 
the  delicacy  and  refinement  of  her  face  could 
not  counteract  the  suggestion  of  her  dress. 
Beauty  when  unadorned  may  adorn  the  most, 
but  it  cannot  give  to  ill-made  old  clothes  the 
effect  of  garments  made  by  a  French  modiste. 
John  Gault  was  used  to  women  who  wore  this 
kind  of  clothes— so  used,  in  fact,  that  he  hardly 
knew  what  made  Viola  appear  so  different  from 


108  HARD-PAN 

the  other  girls  of  his  acquaintance.  The  con- 
trast in  their  looks  seemed  to  mark  more  clearly 
the  contrast  in  their  positions,  seemed  to  pur- 
posely accentuate  that  wide  gulf  set  between 
them. 

Gault  took  her  basket  from  her  and  dropped 
into  place  at  her  side.  The  high  rows  of  houses 
protected  them  from  the  wind,  and  only  as  they 
crossed  the  open  spaces  at  the  intersection  of 
streets  did  it  catch  them,  and,  for  a  moment, 
play  boisterously  with  them. 

The  girl  seemed  in  excellent  spirits.  He  had 
noticed  this  with  every  recurring  visit.  Look- 
ing back  upon  her  as  she  was  when  he  had  first 
known  her,  care-worn,  pale,  and  quiet,  she 
seemed  now  like  a  different  person.  Her  glance 
sparkled  with  animation,  her  voice  was  full  of 
that  thrilling  quality  which  some  women's  voices 
acquire  in  moments  of  happiness.  She  was  a 
hundred  times  more  fatally  alluring  than  she 
had  been  in  the  beginning.  He  knew  now  that 
while  he  was  with  her  his  reason  would  always 
be  in  abeyance  to  his  heart. 

"You  seem  to  be  in  very  good  spirits,"  he 
said  to  her,  not  without  a  feeling  of  personal 
grievance  that  some  cause  of  which  he  was 
ignorant  should  add  so  to  her  lightness  of  heart. 

"  I  am,"  she  answered.  "  I  'm  in  very  good 
spirits.  I  'm  quite  happy.  It  's  something 
lovely  to  feel  so  gay  in  your  heart,  is  n't  it  ? " 


HARD-PAN  109 

"  I  don't  know ;  maybe  I  've  never  felt  so." 

"  Oh,  what  nonsense ! "  she  cried,  looking  at 
Mm  reproachfully.  "You,  who  have  always 
had  just  what  you  wanted !  I  used  to  be  afraid 
of  you  at  first.  It  seemed  rather  awful  to 
know  anybody  who  'd  always  had  things  go 
exactly  their  way." 

He  ignored  the  remark  and  said : 

"What  's  making  you  happy?  Tell  it  to 
me,  and  then  perhaps  I  '11  get  a  little  reflection 
of  it." 

"I  don't  know  that  it  's  any  one  especial 
thing.  Happiness  comes  when  lots  of  little 
things  fit  nicely  together.  I  never  had  one  big 
thing  in  a  lump  to  make  me  happy.  I  tell  you 
what  's  doing  a  good  deal  toward  it.  Father 
and  I  are" — she  made  an  instant's  pause  and 
then  said— "doing  so  much  better;  financially, 
I  mean.     It 's  such  a  relief !     You  don't  know." 

He  turned  and  looked  at  her  and  met  her 
eyes.  They  looked  rather  abashed,  and  then 
fell  away  from  the  scrutiny  of  his. 

"  You  don't  think  it  queer  of  me  to  tell  you 
that,  do  you  I "  she  asked.  "  I  tell  you  a  good 
many  things  I  would  n't  say  to  other  people." 

"  I  am  proud  that  you  should  have  such  con- 
fidence in  me." 

"Well,"  she  continued,  with  a  quick  sigh  of 
relief,  "we  've  been  lately— that  is,  just  about 
when  we  first  knew  you,  and  before   that— 


no  HARD-PAN 

really  quite  badly  off.  And  my  father  being 
so  sanguine,  and  having  once  been  so  differ- 
ently situated,  it  's  very  hard  on  him— very 
hard." 

She  paused,  and  he  felt  that  she  was  looking 
at  him  for  confirmation  of  her  remark. 

"  Very ;  I  quite  understand,"  he  answered. 

"And,  really,  it  was  dreadful.  It  's  trying 
for  old  people— so  much  anxiety.  And  then, 
just  at  the  very  worst,  things  suddenly  bright- 
ened. Just  about  a  month  or  six  weeks  ago 
the  luck  changed.  You  must  have  been  the 
mascot." 

This  time  he  looked  at  her,  but  her  glance 
was  averted. 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  thinking  that  his  voice 
sounded  strange. 

"Because  it  was  after  we  knew  you  that 
things  began  to  get  better.  I  was  angry  with 
my  father  that  first  day  when  he  asked  you  in, 
because  I  did  n't  want  you  to  see  how— how 
straitened  we  were.  There 's  a  pride  of  poverty, 
you  know ;  well,  I  suppose  I  must  have  a  little 
bit  of  it.  Everything  was  at  its  worst  then. 
But  now  it  's  all  different.  You  've  been  the 
mascot." 

He  again  felt  her  eyes  surveying  him,  but 
found  it  impossible  to  look  at  her.  In  his  heart 
he  was  afraid  of  what  he  might  read  in  her  face. 

"Don't    you    like    being    a    mascot?"    she 


HARD-PAN  111 

queried,  in  her  happy  girl's  voice.  "  You  don't 
look  as  if  you  did." 

"  I  'm  proud  and  flattered,  probably  too  much 
so  for  speech." 

"  I  'm  glad,  because  that  's  what  you  were. 
There  's  no  getting  out  of  it.  I  '11  tell  you  how 
it  happened.  My  father  used  to  own  a  great 
deal  of  stock  in  mines  and  companies  and 
things,  and  when  everything  went  down  so  fast, 
he  sold  almost  all  of  it.  But  some  he  kept. 
He  had  it  put  away  in  the  drawers  of  his  desk 
up-stairs  in  his  room,  and  about  two  months 
ago  it  began  to  go  up,  and  now  it  pays  divi- 
dends and  we  get  them.     Is  n't  that  good  luck  1 " 

She  was  close  to  him,  looking  into  his  face. 
He  turned  his  head  this  time  and  confronted 
her  with  a  steady  gaze.  In  the  harsh  afternoon 
light  every  curve  and  line  of  her  countenance 
was  revealed.  Her  eyes  were  full  of  light  and 
Joy.  His  glance  met  and  held  them  for  one 
searching  moment,  then  turned  away  baffled. 

"Very  good  luck.  I  congratulate  you,"  he 
said. 

"  You  may  well,"  she  answered.  "  I  'd  given 
up  expecting  good  luck  ever  any  more  in  this 
world.  I  believe  in  it,  and  my  father's  had 
come  and  gone  almost  before  I  was  born,  and 
mine— mine  has  n't  come  yet,  I  suppose." 

"Unless  you  discover  some  more  old  stock 
in  the  pigeonholes  of  the  desk." 


112  HARD-PAN 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  that 's  likely.     Lightning 
does  n't  strike  twice  in  the  same  place." 
"  What  was  the  stock  ?    Mining  stock  1 " 
She  seemed  in  doubt  for  a  moment,  then  said : 
"Yes,  I  think  so— yes,  surely,  mining  stock." 
"  Do  you  remember  the  name  of  the  mine  f " 
He  glanced  at  her  as  she  walked  beside  him. 
She  appeared  to  be  cogitating. 

"  I  don't  believe  I  do,"  she  answered  at  length. 
"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  don't  believe  my 
father  mentioned  it  to  me.  I  'm  very  stupid 
about  business.  I  've  never  had  any  necessity 
to  know  about  it,  and  so  I  've  never  learned." 
"  How  long  had  it  been  lying  in  the  desk ! " 
"Oh,  years  and  years!  Probably  twenty. 
It  was  a  relic  of  the  days  when  everything  was 
booming." 

"  If  he  's  been  paying  assessments  on  it  all 
these  years,  he  ought  certainly  to  be  repaid 
now." 

He  was  scrutinizing  her  sharply.  Her  profile 
was  toward  him,  and  at  this  remark  he  saw  the 
color  mount  into  her  cheek,  and  that  curious 
appearance  of  immobility  come  over  her  face 
which  denotes  a  sudden,  almost  electric  stop- 
page and  then  concentration  of  mental  activity. 
She  raised  her  head  and  said,  without  look- 
ing at  him: 

"Assessments  are  a  yearly  or  semi-yearly 
payment,  are  n't  they  ? " 


HARD-PAN  113 

"Yes,  or  quarterly— according  to  the  way 
the  stock  is  drawn." 

"  But  is  n't  there  some  that  is  non-assessable ! 
I  've  surely  heard  that  expression." 

"In  other  States,  but  in  California— well, 
possibly  there  might  be." 

"  I  'm  sure  there  must  be.  This  of  my  fa- 
ther's must  have  been."  She  came  quite  close 
to  him  in  her  earnestness,  and  looked  at  him 
with  an.  expression  of  uneasiness  on  her  face. 

"  It  must  have  been  that  kind,"  she  insisted ; 
"  probably  you  never  heard  of  this  mine." 

"  Probably  I  never  did,"  he  answered  grimly. 

They  walked  on  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 
There  was  a  visible  drop  in  her  spirits.  Steal- 
ing a  side  glance  at  her,  he  could  see  that  she 
was  looking  down,  evidently  in  troubled 
thought.  Suddenly  she  raised  her  head  and 
said: 

"  Well,  I  don't  really  know  anything  about  it. 
Only  I  do  hope  one  thing,  and  that  is  that  it 
will  go  on  paying." 

"  Don't  bother  about  that,"  he  said ;  "  it  will." 

"What  makes  you  think  it  will?" 

He  turned  on  her  roughly  and  said : 

"  Don't  you  think  it  will  ? " 

"  I  'd  like  to  think  so,"  she  answered,  abashed 
by  his  unusual  manner ;  "  but  I  've  learned  that 
it 's  foolish  to  hope.     I  try  not  to." 

He  gave  a  short,  disagreeable  laugh  and  said : 


114  HARD-PAN 

"Oh,  not  in  this  case.  Hope  as  much  as 
you  like." 

"  You  're  very  cheering,"  she  answered ;  "  but 
I  don't  see  how  you  can  be  so  sure." 

"It  seems  to  me  you  're  very  pessimistic— 
especially  for  a  young  woman  who  has  just 
found  a  drawerful  of  paying  stock." 

His  manner  in  making  this  remark  was  so 
impregnated  with  angry  bitterness  that  Viola, 
chilled  and  repelled,  made  no  response.  In  si- 
lence they  walked  onward  tiU  a  turn  in  the 
street  brought  them  in  sight  of  the  house. 

At  the  gate  she  said  rather  timidly : 

"  Would  you  like  to  come  in  ? " 

He  had  been  carrying  the  basket,  and  now 
found  the  depositing  of  it  in  a  place  of  safety 
an  excuse  to  enter ;  for  even  in  his  present  state 
of  morose  ill  humor  he  could  not  forego  the 
pleasure  of  a  few  more  moments  of  her  society. 

In  the  cold,  half -furnished  house  their  foot- 
steps echoed  with  a  strangely  solitary  effect. 
She  preceded  him  into  the  parlor,  and  moved 
about  with  the  confident  tread  of  the  chatelaine, 
pulling  up  the  blinds,  putting  the  basket  out  of 
sight,  and  laying  aside  her  hat  and  gloves. 
There  were  some  thin  flowered  muslin  curtains 
hanging  over  the  bay-window,  and  she  ar- 
ranged the  folds  of  these  with  deft,  proprietary 
touches,  and  then  stepped  back  and  studied 
the  effect. 


HARD-PAN  115 

After  watching  her  for  a  moment  the  visitor 
said  in  a  tone  of  restored  amiability : 

"  Are  n't  those  something  new  1 " 

She  looked  at  him  with  quick,  grateful  rec- 
ognition of  his  change  of  mood. 

"Yes;  do  you  like  them?  I  changed  my 
mind  about  a  dozen  times  before  I  bought 
them.  Even  now  I  don't  know  whether  I  'm 
entirely  satisfied." 

"  Oh,  you  ought  to  be,"  he  said,  as  he  drew 
near  and  eyed  the  curtains  with  the  air  of  a 
connoisseur;  "I  'm  sure  you  could  n't  have 
chosen  anything  prettier." 

Viola's  spirits  rose  to  the  level  they  had  been 
at  when  he  met  her  earlier  in  the  afternoon. 
Her  eyes  brightened  and  her  face  took  on  its 
most  animated  expression. 

"  They  're  another  outward  and  visible  sign 
of  the  rise  in  mining  stock,"  she  continued. 
"I  'm  so  glad  you  noticed  them  without  my 
having  to  make  you  do  so." 

"  Do  you  want  to  know  why  I  did  ? " 

"  Because  they  were  pretty,  of  course." 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  looking  at  you  as  you 
arranged  them,  and  wondering  why  a  pair  of 
curtains  should  be  so  much  more  interesting 
than  I  was." 

"  What  made  you  think  they  were  I " 

"Because  you  were  devoting  yourself  to 
them  and  coldly  ignoring  me." 


116  HARD-PAN 

"  That  was  because  I  was  a  little  bit  frightened 
of  you.  You  were  so  cross  just  now,  before  we 
came  in,  that  I  did  n't  know  what  to  say  to 
you." 

"  I  cross  ?  What  a  calumny !  I  was  in  my 
sweetest  humor." 

She  looked  at  him  mischievously. 

"  If  you  call  that  your  sweetest  humor,  all  I 
can  think  is  that  you  're  not  as  clever  as  you 
pretend  to  be." 

"I  'm  afraid  I  'm  not.  For  example,  I  'm 
not  clever  enough  to  understand  you — a  little 
girl  like  you,  scarcely  half  my  age." 

"Am  I  really  such  a  sphinx!" 

"  You  are  to  me." 

"  I  like  that,"  she  said,  smiling,  and  gathering 
up  the  edge  of  the  curtain  in  a  frill ;  "  I  don't 
want  everybody  to  see  through  me.  But 
you  're  different." 

"How  am  I  different?" 

"  You  're  more  a  friend  than  other  people- 
more  a  friend  than  anybody  else  I  know.  Tell 
me  what  you  don't  understand  about  me,  and 
I  '11  explain  it.  I  won't  leave  myself  a  single 
secret." 

Though  he  was  standing  close  to  her,  looking 
down  at  her,  he  suddenly  dropped  his  voice  to 
the  key  that  was  the  lowest  she  could  hear. 

"  If  I  only  dared  to  ask,  and  you  would  only 
tell  the  truth." 


HARD-PAN  117 

"  Dared  to  ask  ! "  she  repeated  blankly, 
alarmed  and  upset  by  his  singular  change  of 
manner. 

"  And  you  would  tell  the  truth,"  he  added, 
and  heard  his  own  voice  sound  suddenly  husky 
and  shaken.    "  Tell  it  to  me  now !  " 

"  I  always  do,"  she  stammered. 

"No  matter  what  it  is,"  he  continued,  as  if 
he  had  not  heard  her — "no  matter  how  it  may 
hurt  me  or  injure  you." 

The  color  ran  over  her  face  and  as  quickly 
ebbed  away,  leaving  her  pallid.  It  might  have 
been  the  confession  of  innocence  or  the  confu- 
sion of  guilt.  She  looked  nervously  from  side 
to  side,  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  and  dropped  them 
again. 

"There  are  always  a  few  things  a  person 
can't  tell,"  she  almost  whispered. 

He  gave  an  ugly  laugh,  and  put  his  arm  half 
round  her  as  if  to  draw  her  to  him,  then  drew 
back  as  quickly,  and  turning  away,  walked  to 
the  window.  Viola  did  not  seem  to  have  no- 
ticed the  attempted  caress.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  penetrating  silence.  He  wondered  if 
she  could  hear  his  heart  beat. 

Then  she  said : 

"Why  do  you  say  such  strange  things'?  I 
always  tell  you  the  truth." 

To  his  listening  ear  her  voice  sounded  affect- 
edly naive.     He  answered  without  moving : 


118  HARD-PAN 

"  Of  course  you  do.  So  do  all  women  since 
the  days  of  Eve." 

"  But  you  don't  seem  to  believe  me." 

"  You  must  n't  jump  at  such  hasty  conclu- 
sions." 

"Have  you  heard  anything  about  me  that 
would  make  you  think  I  was  deceitful ! " 

"I  have  never  spoken  of  you  to  any  one 
except  your  father." 

"I  can't  understand  you  at  all  to-day. 
You  're  so  changeable  and  moody,  and  some- 
times so  ill-humored." 

"What  a  dreadful  afternoon  you  've  had! 
I  'm  sorry."  Then,  with  an  abrupt  change  of 
tone:  "Who  picks  up  the  leaves  of  the  deodar 
and  ties  them  up  in  those  neat  little  bundles  I " 

"I  do— do  you  believe  me!"  She  spoke 
with  a  sharpness  he  had  never  heard  her  use 
before. 

He  broke  out  into  sudden  laughter  that  this 
time  sounded  genuine.  Turning  from  the  win- 
dow, he  came  toward  her  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Are  you  angry  ? "  he  asked.  "  I  don't  won- 
der. Say  the  most  disagreeable  things  you 
can  think  of,  and  they  won't  be  more  than  I 
deserve." 

For  the  second  time  this  afternoon  she 
beamed  over  his  restoration  to  good  humor. 

"I  'm  not  a  very  good  person  to  quarrel 
with,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  with  soft,  for- 


HARD-PAN  119 

giving  eyes,  "though,  as  you  see,  I  've  got  a 
temper." 

He  gave  her  hand  a  little  pressure  and  relin- 
quished it,  taking  up  his  hat. 

"Accept  a  hundred  apologies  from  me  for 
my  rudeness.     Good-by." 

"You  ivere  disagreeable,"  she  admitted,  as 
they  went  together  into  the  hall.  "You 
seemed  as  if  you  did  n't  believe  half  I  said 
to  you,  and  actually  as  if  our  good  luck  made 
you  angry." 

Gault  had  opened  the  door,  and  his  face  was 
turned  from  her. 

"Oh,  don't  think  that,"  he  answered,  as  he 
stepped  out  on  to  the  porch ;  "  whatever  gives 
you  happiness  adds  to  mine.     Adios,  senorita." 

The  door  closed  after  him,  and  Viola  stood 
alone  in  the  hall,  smiling  to  herself.  She  made 
as  if  to  watch  him  through  one  of  the  narrow 
panes  of  glass  which  formed  small  windows  on 
either  side  of  the  portal,  then  suddenly  drew 
back  and  shook  her  head. 

"That  would  be  bad  luck,"  she  said,  "and 
I  'm  too  happy  to  risk  bad  luck." 

It  was  a  few  days  later  than  this  that  an  opera 
company  of  some  fame  in  southern  France  was 
encouraged  by  a  successful  Mexican  season  to 
run  up  to  San  Francisco.  Calif ornians  are  no- 
toriously fond  of  music,  and  the  small  opera 


120  HARD-PAN 

companies  which  wander  through  the  West, 
not  daring  to  measure  their  talents  with  the 
Eastern  stars,  generally  can  count  on  a  profita- 
ble season  by  the  Golden  Gate.  Bad  scenery, 
absurd  costumes,  and  indifferent  acting  do  not 
damp  the  ardor  of  the  Calif ornian,  who  will  go 
anywhere  and  undergo  any  small  discomfort 
to  hear  passable  singing. 

Mrs.  Gault,  who  went  every  year  or  two  to 
New  York  and  found  her  ideas  there,  as  she  did 
her  hats  and  dresses,  derided  the  local  taste  for 
hearing  unknown  prima  donnas  as  Leonora 
and  Gilda.  But  her  husband  and  Letitia  over- 
ruled her  in  at  least  this  one  particular,  and 
when  opera  came  up  from  Mexico  or  across 
from  New  Orleans,  she  always  went  with  them, 
and  tried  to  look  as  bored  as  her  animated  fea- 
tures and  lively  style  would  permit. 

This  particular  season,  a  short  one  of  three 
weeks  given  by  an  Italian  company  that  had 
been  touring  Mexico  during  the  winter,  opened 
with  a  performance  of  "Eigoletto."  For  the 
first  night  Mortimer  Gault  procured  one  of  the 
lower  boxes,  leaving  it  to  his  wife  to  fill  it  with 
such  company  as  she  desired,  provided  a  seat  was 
left  for  him  in  the  background,  where  he  could 
hear  and  would  not  have  to  talk.  The  party, 
which  consisted  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gault,  Letitia, 
John,  Tod  McCormick,  and  his  sister  Pearl, 
was  late  in  arriving,  and  it  was  not  until  the 


HARD-PAN  121 

interval  between  the  second  and  third  acts  that 
they  found  time  to  look  about  the  house.  Le- 
titia  and  Pearl  were  in  the  front  of  the  box,  the 
latter  on  the  inner  side  nearest  the  audience, 
with  John  Gault  sitting  behind  her  in  the 
shadow  of  the  curtain.  While  Letitia  looked 
about  the  house  through  her  lorgnon  she  could 
hear  the  animated  chatter  of  Pearl,  inter- 
spersed with  comments  from  Maud  Gault  and 
Tod. 

"  Do  you  see  that  woman  in  the  box  opposite 
—the  pale  one  with  the  piece  of  blue  velvet 
twisted  in  her  hair?  She  came  up  with  the 
company,  and  her  husband  is  a  professional 
gambler  in  Mexico  and  makes  heaps  of  money. 
You  can  ask  Tod  if  you  don't  believe  me." 

Tod  said  it  was  all  true,  and  that  she  was  a 
"  peach,"  a  form  of  encomium  that,  in  his  vast 
appreciation,  he  was  fond  of  applying  to  every 
member  of  the  other  sex  that  came  within 
range  of  his  admiring  eye. 

"  In  the  box  above,  where  the  two  good-look- 
ing men  are,  that  little  red,  squeezed-looking 
woman  is  Lady  Jervis,  who  used  to  be  Tiny 
Madison  ever  so  long  ago.  She  went  abroad 
and  married  Sir  Somebody  or  other  Jervis, 
and  she  's  out  here  now  with  a  syndicate." 

"  What  is  she  doing  with  a  syndicate  f  "  Mrs. 
Gault  asked.     "  Is  she  going  on  the  stage  ? " 

"  No ;  they  're  buying  mines  or  railroads  or 


122  HARD-PAN 

something.  Her  husband  's  in  it,  and  all  the 
others,  they  say,  are  English  lords.  That  's 
part  of  the  syndicate  with  her  now,  in  the 
box." 

"What  part  of  the  syndicate?"  said  Tod. 
"The  head,  or  the  feet,  or  the  middle?" 

"  Don't  get  gay.  Tod,"  said  his  sister,  severely ; 
"I  don't  like  small  boys  when  they  're  too 
funny.  Down  there  in  the  audience,  near  the 
middle  of  the  parquet,  is  the  woman  whose 
husband  is  something  or  other  in  Central 
America.  He  's  enormously  rich,  and  she 
comes  up  here  once  a  year  and  buys  clothes. 
They  say  she  used  to  be  on  the  stage,  and  she 
looks  just  like  it;  she  has  such  a  lot  of  paint 
round  her  eyes  and  such  vaudeville  hair.  But 
you  ought  to  see  her  children !  They  're  quite 
black,  just  like  little  negroes.  Major  Conway, 
who  lived  down  there  a  good  deal,  says  that 
Central  American  children  are  all  dark  when 
they  're  young,  and  then  it  wears  off  as  they 
grow  older." 

"  Do  they  use  sapolio ! "  inquired  Tod. 

Pearl  treated  this  inquiry  with  fitting  scorn, 
and  continued : 

"  There  's  Bertha  Lajaune,  over  there  by  the 
pillar.  Do  you  think  she  's  so  beautiful?  I 
must  say  I  don't.  I  heard  the  other  day  that 
she  was  a  Jewess,  and  that  her  mother  had  one 
of  those  pawnbroking  places  south  of  Market 


HARD-PAN  123 

Street,  and  that  they  'd  only  just  moved  away 
a  few  years  when  she  married  old  Marcel  La- 
jaune." 

As  Pearl  rattled  on  thus,  assisted  by  Tod  and 
Mrs.  Gault,  Letitia  let  her  lorgnon  follow  on 
the  track  of  their  comments,  idly  passing  from 
face  to  face  as  their  light  talk  touched  on  it. 

She  looked  curiously  at  the  wife  of  the  Mexi- 
can gambler,  a  romantically  handsome  woman, 
with  a  skin  like  a  magnolia-petal,  and  a  frame 
of  ebony  hair  setting  off  a  face  of  Madonna-like 
softness.  The  lady  in  the  box  above  was  not 
pretty  at  all,  Letitia  thought.  She  had  a  broad, 
good-humored  red  face,  an  impudent  nose, 
and  a  frizz  of  blond  hair  crimped  far  down  on 
her  forehead  in  the  English  fashion.  Her  black 
evening  dress  showed  a  section  of  white  neck, 
and  a  piece  of  reddened  arm  was  visible  be- 
tween her  short  sleeves  and  the  edge  of  her 
long  gloves.  Letitia  had  been  too  young  to  re- 
member her  as  Tiny  Madison,  and  wondered 
how  a  Californian  could  come  to  look  so  like  a 
British  princess. 

The  Central  American  lady  was  much  more 
interesting.  She  was  like  a  lily  among  the 
gipsy-looking  dark  women  and  small,  beady- 
eyed  men  of  her  suite.  She  was  thin,  pale,  and 
haggard,  with  artificially  reddened  hair  and 
heavy  eyelids  much  painted.  Her  eyes  from 
under  these  looked  out  with  an  air  of  languid 


124  HARD-PAN 

world-weariness.  She  had  some  immense  dia- 
monds round  her  throat,  and  the  fan  she  lazily 
moved  twinkled  with  them. 

Letitia  studied  her  for  some  interested  min- 
utes, then  passed  on  to  Bertha  Lajaune,  of 
whom  everybody  had  heard  and  most  people 
were  talking.  She  was  accounted  by  many  the 
most  beautiful  woman  in  San  Francisco,  and 
had  risen  from  an  unpenetrated  obscurity  by 
her  marriage  with  a  rich  French  wine  merchant. 
Letitia  disagreed  with  Pearl.  She  thought 
Mme.  Lajaune  quite  as  beautiful  as  people  said 
she  was.  To-night,  in  a  gorgeous  toilet  of 
pale  lavender  with  a  good  deal  of  silver  and 
lace  about  it,  she  had  the  appearance  of  an  en- 
nuyed  princess.  Her  pale  skin,  classic  features, 
and  large  light  eyes,  with  an  extraordinarily 
wide  sweep  of  lid,  seemed  to  stamp  her  as  one 
designed  by  nature  to  wear  a  crown.  Letitia 
was  about  to  turn  and  draw  John  Gault's  at- 
tention to  her,  when  the  lorgnon,  in  its  transit, 
suddenly  commanded  two  faces  just  below— 
Colonel  Reed's  and  Viola's. 

They  were  not  looking  her  way,  and  Letitia 
riveted  the  glass  on  them.  The  colonel  was 
sitting  up  and  looking  about  alertly.  He  was 
instinct  with  life,  enjoyment,  and  animation. 
With  his  neck  craned  out  of  his  collar,  he  was 
surveying  the  audience,  now  and  then  turning 
to  impart  some  hasty  comment  to  Viola.    He 


HARD-PAN  125 

had  the  eager,  happy  air  of  a  man  who  is  in 
his  element. 

Viola  was  sitting  back  rather  listlessly,  with 
her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap.  She  was  dressed 
simply  but  prettily  in  gray,  and  wore  no  hat. 
The  color  was  the  one  most  perfectly  suited 
to  harmonize  with  her  eyes  and  hair.  Among 
the  handsome  and  well-dressed  women  that 
surrounded  her,  she  preserved  the  same  sug- 
gestion of  distinction  and  superiority  that  Le- 
titia  had  recognized  when  she  saw  her  in  her 
own  ragged  drawing-room. 

Holding  out  the  glass,  Letitia  turned  to  Gault, 
who  was  sitting  silent  in  the  shelter  of  the  cur- 
tain, and  said : 

"  Colonel  Reed  's  sitting  down  there." 

He  gave  the  slightest  possible  start,  and 
moving  forward,  looked  in  the  direction  she 
indicated. 

"  So  he  is,"  he  said  in  an  uninterested  tone, 
"  and  with  his  daughter." 

Unfortunately,  Tod  McCormick,  who  had 
drawn  up  as  close  to  Letitia  as  his  chair  would 
permit,  heard  this  short  dialogue  and  pricked 
up  his  ears. 

"  Colonel  Reed,"  he  said  vivaciously,  "  and 
his  daughter!    Where?" 

He  bent  forward,  his  lean  neck  stretched  out, 
his  weazened  visage  full  of  a  curiosity  that  was 
only  naively  boyish,  but  that  on  his  ugly  and 


126  HARD-PAN 

insignificant  features  acquired  a  mean  and  dis- 
agreeable air. 

"  By  gracious !  "  he  said,  after  surveying  the 
colonel  with  a  knowing  grin.  "  At  the  opera, 
in  the  best  seats,  dressed  like  the  lilies  of  the 
field— oh,  you  old  rascal !  " 

He  wagged  his  head  at  the  colonel  with  a 
look  of  wicked  knowledge  that  he  was  ex- 
tremely fond   of  assuming. 

"  What  do  you  mean  1 "  said  Letitia,  twisting 
round  on  her  chair  so  that  she  could  see  him. 
"  What  makes  you  call  him  a  rascal  I " 

"  Oh,  old  rogue !  old  rogue !  "  repeated  Tod, 
as  though  he  had  secret  and  masonic  intel- 
ligence of  serious  misdeeds  in  the  colonel's 
past.  "  And  that 's  his  daughter  ?  Ain't  she  a 
peach ! " 

John  Gault  moved  uneasily  and  looked  back 
into  the  shadows  of  the  box.  Letitia,  feeling 
uncomfortable,  said  hurriedly : 

"  Yes,  indeed.  She  's  prettier  than  anybody 
here,  I  think." 

"  Except  you,  Tishy,"  said  Tod,  but,  it  must 
be  admitted,  in  an  absent  tone.  He  leaned 
farther  forward,  his  eyes  on  the  girl  in  the  seat 
below,  the  smile  on  his  face  changing  from  one 
of  whimsical  malice  to  the  slow,  pleased  grin  of 
affected  admiration. 

"Well,  she  can  draw  my  salary!  She  can 
have  the  key  of  my  trunk !  " 


HARD-PAN  127 

"Have  you  ever  seen  her  before?"  asked 
Letitia. 

"  No,  but  I  've  heard  of  her.  Everybody  's 
heard  of  her." 

"  It 's  very  odd ;  I  never  did  till  the  other  day." 

"You  might  n't  have.  The  boys,  I  mean. 
All  of  a  sudden,  every  feller  's  begun  askin' 
every  other  feller  if  he  knows  Colonel  Reed's 
daughter.  She  's  sort  of  in  the  air,  like 
microbes." 

"Why  should  she  be?" 

Tod  shrugged. 

"Oh,  a  girl  as  pretty  as  that  can't  be  ex- 
pected to  blush  unseen  down  in  South  Park 
forever." 

John  Glault  rose  suddenly  and  went  to  the 
back  of  the  box,  where  he  joined  his  brother, 
who  was  silently  digesting  his  pleasure  in  the 
music.  Tod,  quite  unconscious  of  any  offense, 
was  glad  to  be  left  in  sole  possession  of  Letitia, 
and  rambled  on,  repeating  tag-ends  of  gossip 
that  had  lodged  in  his  shallow  brain. 

"  The  colonel  's  a  great  old  chap.  He  likes 
the  'long  green.'  He  once  had  plenty  of  it, 
and  once  you  get  the  habit  of  having  it,  it  's 
worse  than  morphine  to  get  cured  of.  The 
colonel  ain't  got  cured." 

"  He  has  n't  got  a  cent,"  said  Letitia,  "  so  I 
don't  see  but  that  he  's  got  to  get  cured." 

"  There  's  two  good  ways  of  getting  money 


128  HARD-PAN 

when  you  ain't  got  it— just  two,"  said  Tod, 
oracularly. 

"  And  what  are  those  ? " 

"  Stealing  and  borrowing.  And  if  you  steal 
you  know  there 's  always  a  risk  about  being  an 
expense  to  your  country ;  and  no  self-respect- 
ing man  wants  that.  But  borrowing !  Get  a 
good,  quiet,  peaceable  victim,— the  kind  that 
don't  make  a  fuss,  likes  to  have  his  leg  pulled, 
thrives  on  it,  misses  it  when  you  leave  off,— and 
you  're  on  velvet.  I  should  judge  the  colonel 
had  found  just  the  right  kind." 

"  What  a  horrid  thing  to  say,  Tod !  " 

"Horrid!  The  colonel  does  n't  think  it  's 
horrid.  I  wonder  who  he  's  corralled.  Three 
years  ago  he  took  hold  of  my  father.  It  was 
great,  the  way  he  worked  the  old  man.  You 
know,  people  have  n't  been  able  to  trace  Jerry 
McCormick  through  life  by  the  quarters  he  's 
dropped.  It  did  my  heart  good  to  see  the  way 
the  colonel  managed  him.  I  guess  he  must 
have  got  nearly  a  thou'  out  of  him  before  my 
father  shut  down." 

"  I  should  n't  think  his  daughter  would  like 
that,"  said  Letitia,  feeling  a  chill  at  her  heart. 

Tod  raised  his  eyebrows  and  pursed  his  lips. 
His  faith  in  the  pride  and  fine  feelings  of  young 
women  who  were  poor  did  not  appear  strong. 
But  in  spite  of  his  assumption  of  a  blase  cyni- 
cism, he  was  a  kindly  soul  at  heart. 


HARD-PAN  129 

"  Oh,  she  might  n't  know,"  he  said ;  "  it 's  so 
easy  to  fool  women." 

Letitia  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
commented,  as  if  speaking  to  herself : 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be  easy  for  her  father  to 
fool  her?" 

"  Easy  as  lying." 

"  Do  you  suppose  he  borrows  that  way  from 
other  men  1 " 

Tod  directed  upon  her  an  incredulous  side 
glance.  Then,  meeting  the  anxious  inquiry  of 
her  eyes,  he  broke  into  a  broad  smile. 

"Well,  I  should  snicker,"  he  said,  in  an 
amused  tone. 

The  curtain  rose  here,  and  further  dialogue 
was  cut  off,  for  Letitia  was  a  lover  of  singing, 
and  when  the  music  began  again,  sank  into  a  rapt 
and  immovable  silence.  During  the  other  en- 
tr'actes the  conversation  was  general,  and  any 
more  confidences  on  the  subject  of  Colonel 
Reed  and  his  daughter  were  impossible. 

In  the  foyer,  on  the  way  out,  the  party  be- 
came scattered.  Crowds  surging  from  the 
main  aisle  pressed  forward  and  separated  Mrs. 
Gault,  her  husband,  and  Pearl  McCormick  from 
the  other  three,  who  had  stopped  in  an  angle 
of  space  near  the  stairway  for  Letitia  to  adjust 
her  cloak.  As  Gault  was  shaking  it  out  pre- 
paratory to  laying  it  across  her  shoulders,  her 
attention  was  caught  by  the  figures  of  Colonel 


130  HARD-PAN 

Reed  and  Viola,  who  emerged  from  the  entrance 
of  a  side  aisle  just  in  front  of  them. 

The  colonel's  eye  fell  on  Gault,  his  face 
beamed  with  recognition  and  pleasure,  and,  with 
a  word  to  Viola,  he  started  forward  to  greet 
him.  Viola  gave  a  vexed  exclamation  and 
caught  him  by  the  arm,  evidently  with  the  in- 
tention of  deterring  him.  But  the  old  man, 
flushed  with  the  excitement  of  once  more  find- 
ing himself  in  the  familiar  scenes  of  light  and 
revelry,  seized  her  hand,  and,  drawing  her  with 
him,  came  forward.  Viola,  thus  forcibly  over- 
ruled, advanced,  her  face  full  of  distressed 
embarrassment. 

G-ault,  who  had  been  occupied  with  the  cloak, 
had  not  seen  this  little  pantomime,  and  the 
first  intimation  he  had  of  the  colonel's  proxim- 
ity was  his  loud  and  patronizing  greeting.  He 
turned  quickly  and  saw  the  old  man,  bland  and 
majestic  as  ever,  and  beside  him  Viola,  pained 
and  uncomfortable,  the  object  of  Tod's  admir- 
ing stares,  and  only  too  plainly  dragged  for- 
ward by  her  ill-inspired  father.  His  face 
flushed  with  annoyance,  aroused  alike  by  the 
false  position  in  which  the  girl  was  placed,  and 
by  the  revelation  thus  made  to  Letitia  that  he 
had  not  been  frank  when  he  had  led  her  to  be- 
lieve that  he  did  not  know  Colonel  Reed's 
daughter. 

His  indignation  found  expression  in  his  cold 


HARD-PAN  131 

and  almost  curt  reply  to  the  colonel's  greeting. 
There  was  no  mistaking  its  import.  It  spoke 
so  plainly  of  annoyance  that  even  the  easy  affa- 
bility of  the  old  man  was  disturbed.  He  looked 
taken  aback,  and  for  a  moment  evidently  did 
not  know  what  to  say.  Tod  looked  from  one 
man  to  the  other,  grinning  at  the  embarrass- 
ment of  a  situation  he  did  not  understand.  For 
a  moment  there  was  a  most  disagreeable  pause. 
Letitia  knew  that  recognition  would  betray  the 
fact  that  she  had  met  Viola,  but  the  mortifica- 
tion of  the  girl's  position  made  her  bold. 

"  How  do  you  do.  Miss  Reed  ? "  she  said ;  and 
then,  as  a  brilliant  afterthought,  "  Do  you  like 
music  1 " 

"Very  much,"  Viola  managed  to  answer; 
"  and  it  was  good,  was  n't  it  I " 

"It  was  Al,"  said  Tod,  not  by  any  means 
intending  to  be  left  out;  "and  that  prima 
donna,  ain't  she  a  peach  ? " 

"  Mme.  Foedor  is  a  lovely  Gilda.  She  looks 
so  young.  Most  of  them  are  too  old  and  ma- 
tronly," continued  Letitia,  fastening  the  clasps  of 
her  cloak,  and  wondering  if  this  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable conversation  was  to  be  prolonged. 

Viola's  reply  put  an  end  to  her  uneasiness : 

"Lovely!  I  never  saw  her  before,  or  the 
opera,  either.  But  we  must  go.  Father,  we  '11 
miss  the  car  if  we  don't  hurry.  Good  night. 
G-ood  night,  Mr.  Gault." 


132  HARD-PAN 

She  took  the  old  man  by  the  arm  and  tried 
to  draw  him  toward  the  side  entrance.  But  the 
vision  of  Letitia  in  all  the  glory  of  evening  dress 
had  been  the  last  touch  to  the  colonel's  enjoy- 
ment on  this  momentous  evening.  He  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  the  repulse  he  had  just  re- 
ceived, and  hung  back  from  his  daughter's  per- 
suasive hand,  looking  with  courtly  admiration 
at  Miss  Mason.  She  was  keen  enough  to  see 
that  he  would  again  overrule  his  daughter  and 
add  further  to  the  embarrassment  of  the  meet- 
ing, and  sweeping  her  cloak  round  her,  she  said : 
"  We  must  go  too,  or  we  '11  never  find  the 
others.  Good  night."  And  with  a  little  smil- 
ing nod  she  turned  with  her  attendant  cavaliers 
and  plunged  into  the  crowd. 

Tod,  squeezing  along  beside  her  m  the  throng, 
said  querulously : 

"  Why  did  n't  you  introduce  me  I  I  'd  have 
given  that  old  man  a  song  and  dance,  and  he  'd 
have  asked  me  down  there." 

But  Gault,  on  her  other  side,  said  nothing. 
Once,  as  the  crowd  jostled  her  against  him,  she 
stole  a  glance  in  his  direction,  and  found  him 
looking  away  with  frowning  brows  and  a  mo- 
rose expression.  She  wondered  if  he  had  real- 
ized that  her  remarks  to  Viola  indicated  a 
previous  acquamtance.  If  he  had  he  would 
certainly  be  angry  with  her. 

Pearl  and  Tod  were   dropped  on  the  way 


HARD-PAN  133 

back,  but  Gault  drove  home  with  the  others. 
He  said  he  had  been  suffering  from  insomnia 
lately,  and  a  walk  would  tire  him  out.  Once  in 
the  house,  Mortimer  led  him  back  into  the  din- 
ing-room to  try  a  new  wine  that  had  been  made 
on  the  vineyard  of  a  mutual  friend.  Letitia 
and  Maud  were  left  alone  in  the  drawing-room, 
where  the  former,  expressing  fatigue,  threw  her- 
self down  in  a  long  chair,  and  the  latter  moved 
about  turning  down  lamps,  and  here  and  there 
arranging  with  a  housewife's  hand  the  disarray 
of  tumbled  cushions  and  carelessly  disposed 
draperies.  Finally  she  passed  out  of  the  room, 
and  Letitia,  still  sitting  where  she  had  dropped, 
heard  her  skirts  rustling  softly  as  she  ascended 
the  stairway. 

Letitia  did  not  move.  She  wanted  to  see 
John  before  he  left.  If  he  had  noticed  her 
greeting  of  Viola  Reed  he  would  undoubtedly 
speak  of  it,  and  she  would  be  given  a  chance  to 
explain.  With  any  other  man  but  John  it 
would  have  been  nothing.  But  John  was  so 
peculiar,  so  reserved  about  his  own  affairs,  so 
resentful,  so  terribly  resentful,  of  anything  like 
intrusion  or  interference.  Letitia  as  she  waited 
felt,  much  to  her  own  surprise,  that  she  was 
growing  nervous,  that  her  heart  was  beginning 
to  beat  uncomfortably  hard  and  her  breath  to 
come  uncomfortably  short. 

Suddenly  she  heard  his  voice,  in  the  room  be- 


134  HARD-PAN 

yond,  bidding  Mortimer  good  night.  She  sat 
up  quickly,  and  then  as  quickly  looked  down  so 
as  to  give  her  figure  the  air  of  repose  and  in- 
difference which  was  so  far  from  her  state  of 
mind.  He  entered  the  room,  and  seeing  her, 
said: 

"  Oh,  Tishy,  are  you  still  there  I " 

The  tone  of  his  voice  struck  on  her  ear  as 
singularly  cold  and  aloof.  Her  nervousness 
increased,  for  she  sincerely  feared  his  anger. 

"Yes,"  she  answered;  "I— I— wanted  to 
speak  to  you." 

"  What  had  you  to  say  1 "  he  asked,  stopping 
before  her,  but  not  sitting  down. 

It  did  not  occur  to  her,  in  her  state  of  trepi- 
dation, that  the  obvious  abstraction  and  cold- 
ness of  his  manner  might  be  the  result  of  causes 
that  she  did  not  know.  She  at  once  leaped  to 
the  conclusion  that  he  had  realized  she  had 
made  Viola's  acquaintance  in  some  underhand 
way,  and  that  he  was  now  bitterly  incensed 
with  her. 

"  I  wanted  to  explain  to  you  how— how— I 
came  to  know  Viola  Reed." 

The  remark  dispelled  all  his  indifference  in 
an  instant.  The  sudden  concentrating  of  his 
attention  upon  her  in  a  piercing  look  and  a 
sharp,  penetrating  fixity  of  observation  added 
a  hundredfold  to  Letitia's  agitation. 

"  I— I— knew  you  'd  be  angry  and  probably 


HARD-PAN  135 

misunderstand.  You  're  always  so— so  reticent 
and  queer  about  your  own  affairs.  I  did  n't  see 
any  harm  in  trying  to  know  Miss  Reed.  It 
was  better,  anyway,  than  letting  Maud  go,  and 
she  was  so  set  upon  it." 

Letitia  raised  her  eyes  pleadingly,  then 
dropped  them  quickly.  His  were  blazing.  But 
it  was  too  late  to  go  back  now.  He  took  a 
chair,  drew  it  up  before  her,  and  sat  down. 

"  Just  explain  to  me  what  you  mean,"  he  said 
quietly.  "  You  and  Maud  have  been  trying  to 
make  the  acquaintance  of  Miss  Reed— is  that 
it  I" 

"We  did  more  than  try.  We  did  it— I  did 
it.  I  would  n't  let  Maud.  I  was  afraid  she  'd 
do  something.  Maud  sometimes  has  n't  got 
as  much  tact— as  much  tact  as  she  ought  to 
have." 

"How  did  you  do  it!" 

"  I  just  went  there." 

"  You  went  there  ?  You  went  into  that  lady's 
house— intruded,  without  invitation  or  acquain- 
tance—forced your  way  in  as  if  you  were  a 
peddler?  I  can't  believe  that  of  you,  Letitia. 
You  had  some  excuse  for  going  there." 

Letitia  rose  to  her  feet.  She  did  it  uncon- 
sciously. 

"I  did  n't  exactly  intrude;  though  I  '11  tell 
you  the  truth,  John— I  '11  not  hide  anything.  I 
do  think  it  was  mean.     I  thought  it  after  I  got 


136  HARD-PAN 

in  and  saw  how— how  poor  and  miserable  every- 
thing was.  I  felt  mortified  at  what  I  'd  done. 
I  would  n't  have  gone  in  the  beginning  if  I  'd 
thought  it  was  as  bad  as  that.  But  I  had  an 
excuse.  I  bought  jam  and  four  plants.  That 's 
one  of  them  on  the  stand." 

"Bought  jam  and  plants!  "What  are  you 
talking  about  ?    I  don't  understand  you." 

"She  sells  them,— jam  and  plants,— and  I 
bought  three  dozen  pots  and  four  plants." 

"You  went  there  and  bought  these  things 
from  her  in  her  own  house  ? " 

"Yes,"  Letitia  answered,  and  went  on  help- 
lessly, in  order  to  say  something :  "  Four  plants 
for  two  dollars.     It  was  very  cheap." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Then  the  man 
said  in  a  suppressed  voice : 

"You  patronized  her  in  her  poverty— pried 
into  her  home,  bought  things  from  her,  gave 
her  money !     Good  God !  " 

He  dropped  his  voice  and  turned  away,  iin- 
able  to  finish.  Letitia  came  toward  him.  She 
knew  that  in  this  interview  the  happiness  of 
her  life  was  at  stake,  and  yet  that  she  must  be 
true  to  herself. 

"  I  did  give  her  money,  but  not  as  you  mean. 
I  was  sorry  for  her  and  wanted  to  help  her.  I 
would  n't  have  hurt  her  any  more  than  you 
would.  It  was  because  of  you  I  went  there. 
It  was  because  we  heard  you  were  so  interested 


HARD-PAN  137 

in  her.  But  after  I  got  there  I  was  ashamed 
and  sorry,  and  I  tried  not  to  make  her  feel 
it." 

"So  you  gave  her  two  dollars  for  four  plants ! 
It  takes  a  woman  to  know  how  to  humiliate  a 
woman ! " 

"  I  saw  she  was  n't  the  kind  of  person  Maud 
thought  she  was,"  continued  Letitia,  going 
blindly  on.  "  I  was  certain  they  made  a  mis- 
take in  saying  the  things  they  did  about  her. 
Even  if  you  were  giving  them  money,  even  if 
you  were  supporting  them,  she  was  n't  that 
kind." 

"  Who  told  you  I  was  supporting  them  1 " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know— people  say  it.  And 
maybe  I  did  do  her  an  injustice  in  going  there 
and  spying  on  her,  as  you  say.  But  you  are 
the  one  who  has  done  her  a  real  injustice— the 
kind  of  injustice  that  hurts." 

"  I ! "  he  exclaimed,  too  surprised  to  defend 
himself.    "  What  have  I  done  I " 

"  You  've  kept  it  all  so  secret  that  you  made 
people  think  there  was  something  wrong  about 
it." 

"Letitia,"  he  cried,  in  a  tone  of  warning, 
"  take  care !    You  've  meddled  enough  already," 

"  You  hid  away  your  friendship  with  her  as 
if  it  were  shameful.  You  acted  as  if  you  were 
ashamed  of  her  and  of  your  knowing  her — as  if 
there  was  something  wicked  about  her,  so  you 


138  HARD-PAN 

could  n't  even  speak  of  her  to  me  or  any  other 
woman  that  you  knew  well.  When  I  asked  you 
about  her,  though  you  were  too  much  of  a  man 
of  honor  to  tell  me  a  lie,  you  were  not  too 
much  of  a  man  of  honor  to  act  one.  You  gave 
her  father  money,  but  you  were  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  that  you  even  knew  her." 

"  We  've  had  enough  of  this  conversation,"  he 
said,  now  trembling  with  rage.     "  Let  it  end." 

He  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  Letitia's 
voice  arrested  him,  and  he  stood  with  his  back 
to  her,  listening. 

"  You  ought  to  have  known  enough  to  trust 
her,"  she  continued  desperately,  for  she  was 
singing  the  swan-song  of  her  hopes.  "  You  've 
only  got  to  look  into  her  face  to  see  what  she 
is.  No  matter  what  people  say  about  her  and 
her  father,  no  matter  what  silly  stories  are  re- 
peated, even  if  there  ivere  other  men  who  gave 
the  colonel  money—" 

Letitia  stopped.  Gault  had  wheeled  sud- 
denly round  upon  her,  and  the  expression  of 
his  face  made  the  words  die  on  her  lips. 

"  Other  men ! "  he  repeated.  "Who  said  that  ? " 

"  Tod,"  she  faltered. 

"Who  were  they?" 

"I— I— don't  know,  he  did  n't  tell  their 
names." 

"What  did  he  say!" 

"  He  said— he  said—"  she  stammered,  bewil- 


HARD-PAN  139 

dered  by  her  own  pain  and  sympathy  for  his 
obvious  suffering.  "No,  it  was  I.  I  asked 
him  if  the  colonel  got  money  from  other  men, 
and  he— he  did  n't  say  much ;  he  laughed  and 
said,  '  Well,  I  should  snicker ! ' " 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Gault,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Good  night." 

He  turned  and  left  the  room,  and  a  moment 
later  the  hall  door  closed  behind  him  with  a 
mujffled  bang. 

For  a  space  Letitia  stood  motionless  as  a 
statue,  a  tall  and  splendid  figure  in  her  gleam- 
ing dress,  on  which  fine  lines  of  interwoven 
silver-work  caught  and  lost  the  light.  Then, 
rousing  herself,  she  moved  about  heavily  but 
methodically,  putting  out  the  remaining  lights. 
When  they  were  all  extinguished  she  crossed 
the  hall  and  slowly  ascended  the  stairway,  the 
silken  whisperings  of  her  skirts  being  the  only 
sound  in  the  sleeping  house. 


THE  season  had  worn  itself  away  to  June. 
The  winds  were  an  established  fact,  and 
blew  from  the  ocean  down  the  long  clefts  of 
the  streets  out  into  the  bay  beyond.  Outside  the 
Golden  Gate  the  fog  lay  along  the  horizon  like  the 
faint  gray  shores  of  a  distant  country.  "When  the 
winds  dropped  at  sundown,  it  came  creeping  in, 
drawing  its  white  cloak  over  the  water,  across 
the  dunes,  and  finally  down  the  streets  and 
round  the  houses.  All  night  it  brooded  close 
over  the  city,  sleeping  on  its  crowded  hills,  and 
in  the  morning  lay  brimming  in  every  hollow 
till  the  valleys  looked  like  cups  crowned  high 
with  a  curdling  white  drink. 

When  the  sun  had  driven  it  back  to  its  cloud- 
country  on  the  horizon,  there  were  wonderful 
mornings,  all  blue  and  gold.  The  warm  rays 
licked  up  the  night's  moisture,  and  for  a  few 
clear,  still  hours  had  the  world  to  themselves. 
They  burned  the  land  dry  and  parched.  The 
hills  at  the  mouth  of  the  bay  turned  fawn- 
color,  and  looked  like  lean,  crouching  lions  with 


HARD-PAN  141 

hides  that  fell  away  from  their  gaunt  bones. 
The  sea  and  sky  were  a  hard-baked  blue,  with 
the  little  sails  of  boats  and  the  strenuous  green 
leafage  of  tropical  plants  seeming  as  if  inlaid  in 
the  turquoise  background.  The  gardens  about 
South  Park  grew  dustier  and  drier.  Only  the 
aloes  appeared  to  have  sap  enough  to  retain 
any  color,  and  against  the  faded  monochrome 
of  the  surrounding  shrubs  they  shone  a  strong, 
cold  gray-blue.  In  the  Western  Addition  the 
gardens  were  watered  and  bloomed  extrava- 
gantly, till  the  ivy  geraniums  hung  from  the 
window-boxes  like  pieces  of  pink  carpet,  and 
the  heliotropes  dashed  themselves  in  purple 
spray  to  the  second  stories. 

Fashionable  people  were  leaving  town  daily. 
Some  were  going  to  the  redwoods,  where  the 
forest  glades  are  dim  and  still  and  full  of  a 
chill  solemnity,  like  the  aisles  of  old  cathedrals. 
Others  were  en  route  for  one  of  the  twin  towns 
which  tip  the  points  of  the  crescent  that  holds 
Monterey  Bay  between  its  horns.  Many  were 
repairing  to  the  country  houses  which  have 
sprung  up  in  scattered  clusters  down  the  line 
of  the  railroad  to  the  Santa  Clara  valley.  Here 
they  found  the  warmth  and  idleness  which  CaH- 
fornians  love.  All  summer  the  vast  expanse 
of  the  valley,  shut  in  from  wind  and  fog  by  a 
rampart  of  hills,  brooded  under  perpetual  sun- 
shine.    In  the  motionless  noons  its  yellow  fields, 


142  HARD-PAN 

where  the  shadows  of  the  live-oaks  lie  round 
and  black,  swam  in  quivering  veils  of  heat,  and 
the  smell  of  the  tar- weed  rose  heavy  and  aro- 
matic, like  the  incense  from  a  hundred  altars. 

The  Mortimer  G-aults,  being  fashionable  folk, 
had  broken  up  their  household  and  gone  their 
several  ways— Letitia  first,  with  many  trunks, 
to  make  visits  at  hotels  and  country  houses. 
Mrs.  Gault,  like  other  San  Francisco  matrons, 
did  not  close  her  house,  but  made  quick  flights 
into  the  country,  which  she  sincerely  hated,  and 
then  came  back  thankfully  to  town,  where  she 
dwelt  in  comfort  with  two  servants,  and,  when 
her  husband  was  not  with  her,  ate  meals  of 
choice  daintiness,  which  were  laid  on  a  square 
of  drawn-work  on  the  end  of  the  dining-room 
table. 

John  Gault  had  not  been  able  to  see  Letitia 
before  her  departure,  which  was  not  so  strange, 
as  she  left  shortly  after  the  night  at  the  opera. 
In  the  one  or  two  small  gatherings  which  took 
place  at  the  Mortimer  Gaults'  before  the  family 
exodus,  he  had  been  unable  to  participate — at 
least,  that  was  what  he  wrote  to  Maud.  She, 
it  is  needless  to  state,  knowing  of  that  evening 
interview  after  the  opera,  had  tried  to  elicit 
from  Letitia  an  account  of  what  had  taken 
place.  In  this,  however,  she  was  unsuccessful. 
Letitia  was  at  first  stubbornly  silent,  then 
cross.     But  she  accepted  an  invitation  to  stay 


HARD-PAN  143 

with  the  McCormicks  at  their  country  place, 
the  Hacienda  del  Pinos,  in  the  Napa  valley; 
and  Maud  felt  that  her  extraordinary  and  in- 
explicable sister  was,  for  once  in  her  life,  be- 
having like  a  rational  human  being, 

Gault's  reluctance  to  see  Letitia  had  been  the 
whim  of  a  nature  harassed  past  bearing.  He 
had  gone  from  her  that  evening  in  frenzy  with 
her,  himself,  and  a  world  where  life  was  so  un- 
livable  and  being  alive  so  remorseless  a  tragedy. 
The  man  who  had  never  had  a  serious  check  in 
his  easy  course  from  birth  to  middle  age  had 
now  suddenly  found  himself  the  central  figure 
in  one  of  those  maddening  dilemmas  which 
blight  or  make  the  lives  of  less  fortunate  indi- 
viduals. 

The  time  had  come  when  the  situation  called 
for  a  determined  step.  But  what  step  he  could 
not  decide.  What  particular  course  of  action 
would  end  the  whole  matter  most  satisfactorily 
for  himself  was  the  question  that  besieged  him. 
He  hardly  gave  a  thought  to  Viola.  He  was  the 
victim  of  either  a  repulsively  sordid  plot,  or 
else  he  was  a  man  cruelly  lured  by  fate  into  a 
position  from  which  it  seemed  impossible  to 
extricate  himself  without  misery  of  one  sort  or 
another.  At  one  moment  he  saw  himself  as 
the  gullible  victim  of  a  clever  pair  of  adven- 
turers, and  laughed  fiercely  at  the  scruples 
which  prevented  him   from  holding  them  at 


144  HARD-PAN 

their  own  valuation.  At  the  next  he  was 
sickened  at  the  manner  in  which  he  was  de- 
grading himself  and  her  by  giving  way  to  the 
meanest  and  most  dastardly  suspicions. 

He  longed  to  think  that  he  wronged  her,  and 
yet,  so  fearful  was  he  of  being  hoodwinked,  so 
inclined  to  distrust  himself  and  the  rest  of  the 
world,  that  he  could  not  rise  up  and  believe  in 
her,  though  his  love  bade  him.  Once  he  thought 
of  going  to  Tod  and  asking  him  to  explain  his 
conversation  with  Letitia,  and  then  revolted  at 
the  idea  of  exposing  Viola  and  his  own  weak- 
ness to  the  vulgar  curiosity  of  the  shallow- 
brained  youth.  The  only  possible  ground  for 
believing  in  Viola's  innocence  was  that  her 
father  was  deceiving  her,  and  it  seemed  to 
Gault  that  the  old  man  had  neither  the  subtlety 
nor  the  desire  to  deceive  anybody. 

After  suffering  these  torments  for  some  days 
he  suddenly  came  to  a  decision.  He  resolved 
that  he  would  have  an  interview  with  Viola, 
in  which,  if  she  did  not  voluntarily  tell  him 
the  truth,  he  would  demand  it  from  her.  He 
would  at  first  try  to  beguile  her  into  an  expla- 
nation, and  if  she  evaded  this,  he  would,  di- 
rectly and  without  circumlocution,  force  her  to 
tell  him.  He  knew  it  was  brutal,  but  he  was 
past  consideration  for  any  one.  He  had  thought 
of  this  before,  but  merely  from  the  comfortable 
distance  of  casual  speculation.     His  attitude 


HARD-PAN  145 

now  was  one  of  determination.  His  self-indul- 
gent, indolent  nature  had  been  goaded  to  a 
point  where  it  could  act  more  easily  than  it 
could  endure. 

Once  having  made  up  his  mind,  he  was  more 
at  rest  than  he  had  been  for  weeks.  He  did 
not  give  much  thought  to  the  manner  of  at- 
tacking the  subject,  merely  saying  to  himself 
that  he  was  sure  she  could  be  induced  to  reveal 
all  she  knew  by  diplomacy.  Of  only  one  thing 
he  felt  convinced,  and  he  felt  this  with  the 
conviction  that  one  has  of  the  mandates  of 
destiny  —  that  the  next  time  he  saw  her  alone 
he  would  learn  from  her  all  there  was  to  learn. 
Beyond  this  he  shrank  from  looking. 

While  he  had  no  desire  to  put  off  the  inter- 
view that  two  months  before  would  have 
seemed  an  impossibility,  he  was  deliberative 
and  unhurried.  Thinking  that  the  afternoon 
was  the  best  time  to  find  her  by  herself,  he 
went  to  the  house  near  South  Park  at  four 
o'clock,  a  week  after  he  had  seen  her  at  the 
opera.  She  was  out,  and  on  a  second  visit  at 
a  similar  hour  the  result  was  the  same.  He 
had  pushed  his  card  under  the  door,  and  had 
hoped  that  she  might  have  acknowledged  the 
visits  by  a  note ;  but  she  made  no  sign. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  week  he  went  again, 
in  the  evening,  and  found  her,  as  usual,  sitting 
with   her  father.     She   mentioned   her   disap- 


146  HARD-PAN 

pointment  at  missing  Mm,  and  said  that  the 
afternoon  was  a  bad  time  to  find  her,  as  she 
was  almost  always  either  busy  or  out.  This 
seemed  to  him  to  plainly  indicate  that  she  did 
not  wish  to  encourage  his  afternoon  visits. 
He  began  to  wonder  if  she  was  endeavoring  to 
avoid  seeing  him  alone.  If  she  was,  she  must 
have  had  some  inkling  of  what  he  contem- 
plated. The  thought  spurred  him  to  a  feverish 
determination  to  have  the  explanation  with 
her  at  the  earliest  opportunity.  Heretofore 
she  had  appeared  to  him  a  factor  which,  if  he 
chose  to  be  hard  enough,  he  could  always 
manage.  Now,  if  she  were  to  oppose  him 
with  strategy  and  evasion,  the  difficulties  of 
solving  the  problem  would  be  increased  a  hun- 
dredfold. 

But  if  Viola  seemed  desirous  of  escaping  a 
tete-a-tete,  the  colonel  was  more  assiduous 
than  ever  in  seeking  the  society  and  bounty 
of  his  obliging  friend.  The  sum  to  which  he 
now  stood  indebted  to  Gault  he  described 
as  being  "quite  formidable."  He  constantly 
spoke  of  repaying  it,  and  made  many  vague 
allusions  to  promising  enterprises  that  were 
destined  to  enrich  his  old  age. 

Two  days  after  the  evening  visit  the  colonel 
appeared  as  usual,  and  this  time  produced  a 
sheet  of  paper  upon  which  was  written  a  state- 
ment of  his  indebtedness.    It  was  copied  out 


HARD-PAN  147 

in  his  clear,  fine  hand,  each  sum  scrupulously 
set  down  with  its  corresponding  date,  and  at 
the  end  of  the  column  of  figures  the  total 
—$510.  Slapping  his  breast-pocket,  he  re- 
marked that  a  duplicate  of  the  memorandum 
lay  there  for  his  benefit  and  the  stimulating  of 
his  memory. 

"And  when  the  days  of  the  lean  kine  are 
over,"  he  said,  "  we  will  wipe  it  all  out— clean 
the  slate." 

His  friend  disclaimed  any  eagerness  as  to 
the  arrival  of  these  golden  days,  accommo- 
dated the  colonel  with  his  customary  sum,  and 
saw  the  old  man  go  striding  out  in  lofty  satis- 
faction. Left  by  himself,  he  idly  looked  over 
the  colonel's  memorandum.  It  was  a  full 
statement,  the  dates  preceding  each  sum,  and 
at  the  top  bearing  the  legend,  "  Memorandum 
of  moneys  loaned  by  John  Gault  to  Ramsay 
Eeed." 

He  threw  the  paper  into  a  drawer  of  his  desk 
and  thought  no  more  about  it,  though  he  could 
not  forbear  smiling  at  the  old  man's  studied 
preciseness. 

After  considerable  reflection,  Gault  decided 
that  the  best  way  to  bring  matters  to  the  crisis 
he  desired  was  to  ask  Viola  to  accord  him  an 
interview.  He  would  manage  to  make  the  re- 
quest at  some  moment  when  the  old  man  was 
either  not  listening— which  was  unusual— or 


148  HARD-PAN 

had  preceded  Mm  iuto  the  hall  in  the  moment 
of  departure.  If  Viola  refused,  as  he  had 
some  reason  to  think  she  might,  he  would 
have  to  arrange  another  plan,  but,  for  the  pres- 
ent, this  was  the  most  feasible  one  he  could 
think  of. 

It  was  late  for  a  cross-town  visit  when  he 
started  from  his  club.  The  evening,  too,  was 
one  of  the  most  disagreeable  of  the  season. 
The  city  lay  soaked  under  a  blanket  of  fog. 
On  the  West  Side  there  was  so  much  life  and 
activity  on  the  streets,  so  much  light  and  sound 
and  pressure  of  shifting  humanity,  that,  to  a 
certain  extent,  the  dreariness  of  the  weather 
was  overcome ;  but  in  the  dark  desolation  of 
the  old  quarter  the  chiU  weight  of  the  fog  lay 
like  a  veil  of  mystery  over  the  silent  streets. 

Gault  passed  down  narrow  aUeys  where 
his  own  footsteps  were  the  only  sound,  and 
where  the  light  of  the  rare  lamps  seemed 
smothered  by  the  dense  atmosphere.  On  the 
broad  thoroughfare  the  old  mansions  looked 
like  vast,  dim  ghosts  of  a  lordly  past,  rising 
vague  and  mournful  from  huddled  masses  of 
wet  foliage.  Underfoot  the  hollows  in  the 
worn  asphaltum  gleamed  with  water,  and 
lengths  of  brick  wall,  touched  by  the  beam  of 
an  adjacent  lamp,  shone  as  though  rain  were 
falling. 

Turning  out  of  this  wider  way  into  the  cross- 


HARD-PAN  149 

streets,  he  could  hear  in  the  silence  the  fog 
dripping  off  angles  in  slowly  detaching  drops. 
The  old  wooden  pavements  oozed  water  be- 
neath the  pressure  of  his  foot.  Sometimes 
from  a  crack  in  a  sagging  shutter  an  inquisi- 
tive yellow  ray  shot  into  the  recesses  of  a 
tangled  garden,  gilding  the  shining  leaves  of 
great  thirsty  plants  that  drank  in  the  reluc- 
tantly distilled  moisture.  Now  and  then  a 
hurrying  figure  passed  him  with  collar  up  and 
hat  drawn  down,  but  for  the  most  part  the 
streets  were  deserted,  and  even  at  this  com- 
paratively early  hour  the  dwellers  in  the  dis- 
trict seemed  to  be  retiring,  as  most  of  the 
houses  showed  lights  only  in  the  upper  stories. 

In  the  Reeds'  house  there  were  the  usual 
edges  of  light  shining  through  the  cracks  and 
slits  of  the  old  blinds.  In  answer  to  his  ring 
there  was  the  usual  moving  of  this  light  into 
the  hall,  where  it  shone  out  suddenly  through 
the  two  narrow  panes  of  glass  that  flanked  the 
door.  When  the  door  opened  there  was  the 
usual  picture  of  Viola  shading  the  light  with 
one  hand,  that  shone  rosily,  and  looking  ques- 
tioningly  out. 

She  seemed  gladly  surprised  to  see  him, 
but  the  old  days  of  her  embarrassment  were 
over.  She  helped  him  hang  his  coat,  which 
was  beaded  with  moisture,  over  the  back  of  a 
chair,  and  then  paused  to  arrange  the  wick  of 


150  HARD-PAN 

her  lamp  as  he  preceded  her  into  the  drawing- 
room.  In  the  doorway  he  stopped  and  looked 
questioningly  about.    The  colonel  was  not  there. 

"Where  is  your  father!"  he  said,  as  she 
followed  him,  carrying  her  lamp. 

"My  father?"  She  set  the  lamp  on  the 
table,  still  occupied  with  the  recalcitrant  wick. 
"  Oh,  he  's  out.  He  hardly  ever  goes  out  in 
the  evening,  but  to-night  he  wanted  to  see  Mr. 
Maroney,  who  is  only  here  from  New  York  for 
a  few  days.  Such  a  dreadful  night,  too! 
There  —  I  don't  think  it  will  smoke  any  more." 

Gault,  who  had  absently  taken  the  colonel's 
chair,  made  no  response.  So  the  opportunity 
he  had  been  planning  for  had  come !  He  felt 
a  sensation  of  sickening  repulsion  at  the  task 
he  had  set  himself.  Already  his  heart  seemed 
to  have  begun  to  beat  like  a  hammer  and  his 
mouth  felt  dry.  Without  consciousness  of 
what  he  looked  at,  his  eyes  moved  about  the 
room  and  rested  on  a  black  coat  which  was 
hanging  over  the  back  of  a  chair.  On  the  edge 
of  the  table  were  a  pair  of  scissors,  a  thimble, 
and  some  spools  of  thread. 

Viola  took  the  vacant  chair  near  these  and 
put  on  the  thimble. 

"  You  '11  not  mind  if  I  go  on  sewing  ? "  she 
said.  "I  never  thought  of  your  coming  to- 
night, and  so  I  was  fixing  this.  It  will  only 
take  a  few  moments  to  finish  it." 


HARD-PAN  151 

"What  is  it?"  Gault  asked,  in  order  to  say 
something,  noticing  that  the  garment  seemed 
heavy  and  difficult  for  her  to  handle. 

"  My  father's  coat— the  one  he  wears  every 
day,"  she  answered.  "  I  was  mending  it  while 
he  had  his  other  one  on.  He  gets  fond  of 
clothes,  and  it 's  next  to  impossible  to  get  them 
away  from  him." 

She  turned  the  coat  about  every  now  and 
then,  her  needle  assaulting  it,  and  catching 
splinters  of  light  as  it  darted  in  and  out.  Grault 
leaned  back,  watching  her.  She  bent  her  face 
over  the  work  as  she  sewed,  presenting  to  his 
gaze  the  fine  white  parting  down  the  middle 
of  her  head,  and  the  close-growing  threads  of 
her  hair,  here  and  there  transmuted  into  fila- 
ments of  gold.  There  was  an  air  of  serenity, 
of  quietness  and  peace,  about  her,  that  seemed 
to  tell  of  an  inner  sense  of  happiness. 

As  he  sat  back  staring  at  her,  and  wondering, 
with  that  breathless  beating  of  his  heart  grow- 
ing stronger,  what  he  should  say,  she  suddenly 
raised  her  head  and,  looking  straight  into  his 
eyes,  said: 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  1 " 

Her  face,  with  the  lamplight  shining  full  on 
it,  seemed  to  radiate  a  soft,  pervasive  content. 
She  asked  the  question  with  the  indescribable 
charm  of  glance  and  smile  of  the  woman  who 
knows  that  her  lightest  word  gives  pleasure. 


152  HARD-PAN 

The  increase  in  her  beauty  and  attraction 
which  he  had  felt  rose  from  the  consciousness 
that  she  was  loved. 

"  I  was  n't  thinking  about  anything  much," 
he  said  evasively.  "  I  'd  like  to  sit  on  here 
this  way,  not  thinking  or  worrying  or  caring, 
but  just  watching  you." 

"  There  is  no  reason  why  you  should  n't  do 
it ;  only  it  does  n't  sound  very  amusing." 

"  It  is  n't  amusing." 

"  I  know  it  is  n't,"  she  said  contritely,  ''  and 
I  'm  so  sorry  that  I  have  to  do  this  old  coat ; 
but  it  will  be  done  soon,  and  then  we  can  talk. 
Just  a  minute— just  a  minute !  " 

She  spoke  in  a  busy  tone,  and  went  on  turn- 
ing the  coat  about,  jerking  at  the  buttons,  and 
plunging  her  hands  into  the  pockets. 

Gault  felt  that  the  pleasure  of  thus  sitting 
and  looking  at  her  was  sapping  his  resolution. 
He  felt  himself  drifting  away,  aimless  and  irre- 
sponsible, on  the  current  of  the  moment.  The 
duties  of  past  and  future  were  lost  sight  of 
in  the  dreamy  satisfaction  of  watching  the 
light  on  her  hair  and  the  movements  of  her 
hands. 

He  rose  suddenly  and  walked  to  the  window, 
with  a  remark  about  seeing  if  the  fog  was  lift- 
ing. As  he  turned,  he  saw  her  take  a  folded 
paper  from  one  of  the  coat-pockets,  and,  stand- 
ing looking  out  of  the  window,  heard  the  crisp 


HARD-PAN  153 

rustling  of  the  paper  as  she  unfolded  it.  There 
was  a  moment  of  perfect  silence,  and  then  he 
heard  again  the  same  light  rustling,  which 
sounded  curiously  loud  and  intrusive  to  his 
irritated  nerves. 

He  turned  toward  her,  wondering  why  she 
did  not  speak.  She  was  sitting  with  the 
opened  paper  in  her  hands,  her  eyes  riveted  on 
it.  As  he  drew  near,  he  saw  that  the  rustling 
rose  from  the  fact  that  her  hands  were  trem- 
bling violently,  causing  the  paper  to  vibrate. 

She  heard  his  approaching  step  and  looked 
up.     At  the  sight  of  her  face  he  stopped, 

"What  is  it  ?"  she  cried,  rising  suddenly  to 
her  feet  and  holding  it  out  toward  him. 

He  glanced  at  it.  It  was  the  colonel's  du- 
plicate memorandum.  Without  aid  or  provo- 
cation the  hour  of  revelation  had  come. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  seize  it.  But  she 
drew  it  back  from  him,  repeating  in  a  high, 
strained  voice : 

"What  is  it?  I  don't  understand.  What 
is  it?" 

"It  's  nothing— nothing  but  a  business 
paper.     G-ive  it  to  me." 

He  did  not  know  what  to  say  or  do— the 
scene  had  changed  so  suddenly  and  horribly. 
Her  face  looked  at  him,  pale,  bewildered,  quiver- 
ing with  a  terrified  surmise.  Without  a  mo- 
ment's memory  of  what  he  had  come  for,  he  felt 


154  HARD-PAN 

as  if  all  he  wanted  was  to  get  the  paper  and 
hide  it. 

"  Give  it  to  me ! "  he  demanded  authoritatively. 
"  It  does  n't  concern  you." 

"It  does,"  she  cried,  "it  does!  But  what 
is  it?    What  does  it  mean ?" 

She  looked  back  at  it,  and  her  eyes  ran  down 
the  list  of  figures,  and  then  were  raised  to  his, 
full  of  a  piercingly  anguished  inquiry. 

"  It 's  nothing  but  a  business  matter  between 
your  father  and  me ;  and  you  don't  understand 
business." 

"  I  do  understand— I  understand  this !  "  she 
answered ;  and  then,  with  a  sudden  cry  of  shame 
and  pain,  she  threw  the  crumpled  paper  on 
the  table  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 
"  Oh,  how  could  he !  "  she  whispered.  "  How 
could  he ! " 

Gault  looked  at  her,  mute  and  motionless. 
From  the  moment  he  had  seen  her  face  as  she 
read  the  paper,  he  knew  that  every  suspicion 
he  had  had  was  groundless.  He  was  ashamed 
to  speak,  almost  to  move.  The  sound  of  his 
own  voice  was  hateful  to  him.  He  stood  help- 
lessly looking  at  her,  shaken  with  pity,  passion, 
and  remorse.     Finally  he  said  gently : 

"  Look  at  me,  Viola." 

She  obeyed  him  like  a  child.  Her  face  was 
drawn ;  her  eyes,  after  the  moment  of  meeting 
his,  sank. 


HARD-PAN  155 

"  Any  man  would  have  done  what  the  colonel 
did.    It 's  nothing  of  the  least  importance." 

"Perhaps  not  to  you,"  she  answered  in  a 
hardly  audible  voice ;  "  but  to  me !  " 

He  looked  away  and  tried  to  speak  lightly : 

"  It  is  of  no  importance  whatever  to  me,  and 
I  don't  see  why  it  should  be  of  any  to  you." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Gault,  what  do  you  think  I  am, 
that  you  should  say  that?" 

"  A  foolish  girl  who  takes  a  trifling  matter 
too  seriously,"  he  answered  quickly. 

"No— a  woman  who  has  been  hurt  and 
humiliated.  It  may  have  been  of  no  impor- 
tance to  you  that  you  were  giving  us  the  clothes 
we  wore  and  the  food  we  ate— but  oh!  to 
me—" 

Her  voice  broke,  and  she  turned  her  face 
away. 

He  made  an  impatient  movement  with  his 
head. 

"  Come,  don't  let 's  talk  about  that  any  more. 
You  're  not  yourself.  Besides,  whatever  in- 
significant matter  you  're  worrying  about  was 
not  of  your  doing." 

"  No,"  she  said,  turning  on  him  passionately, 
"  but  the  responsibility  rests  on  me ;  for  what- 
ever my  father  may  have  done  that  was  wrong 
or  foolish  was  for  me.  There  is  an  excuse 
for  him.  You— other  people— outsiders— don't 
know.    He  has  n't  wanted  these  things  for  him- 


156  HARD-PAN 

self.  It  was  all  done  for  me.  I  was  his  idol, 
and  it  has  almost  broken  his  heart  that  his 
money  and  position  were  gone  before  I  was  old 
enough  to  profit  by  them.  He  always  wanted 
to  be  rich  again,  but  it  was  for  me.  He  wanted 
me  to  have  everything— pretty  clothes  to  wear, 
and  good  things  to  eat,  and  theaters  and  amuse- 
ments, like  other  girls.  He  tried  to  keep  up 
with  his  old  bonanza  friends  who  were  tired  of 
him  and  had  no  use  for  him,  because  he  thought 
their  wives  might  be  kind  to  me  and  ask  me  to 
their  houses.  He  has  forgotten  himself  and 
what  he  owed  to  me,  but  it  was  because  he 
loved  me  so  much." 

"  Viola  dear,"  he  said  pleadingly,  "  I  under- 
stand all  this.    No  one  blames  the  colonel." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him.  Her  mood 
was  past  control. 

"  When  we  first  met  you  things  were  at  their 
worst.  We  were  in  terrible  need.  We  had  had 
some  money— quite  a  good  deal— three  years 
before ;  it  was  for  a  mortgage  on  the  house,  or 
something ;  but  it  had  all  gone,  mostly  in  Pine 
Street.  Yours  must  have  gone  there,  too. 
Everything  he  has  had  of  late  years  goes 
there,  because  he  is  determined  to  make  a 
second  fortune  for  me  before  he  dies.  And  he 
never  will— poor  old  man!  he  never  will.  I 
did  what  I  could  and  made  a  little,  but  he 
could  n't  bear  it,  because  he  hated  to  think  I 


HARD-PAN  157 

worked  at  anything.  So  that  was  why  he 
went  to  you.  We  were  in  despair  when  we 
knew  you  first— we  were  starving." 

"  Dear  child,  why  go  over  all  this  f  It 's  only 
a  pain  to  us  both." 

He  tried  to  take  her  hands,  but  she  drew 
them  back  and  made  a  gesture  as  though  push- 
ing him  away. 

"  I  did  n't  know  where  it  came  from.  I  be- 
lieved him.  Oh,  Mr.  Gault,  if  he  told  me  what 
was  not  true,  you  can't  blame  him.  You  've 
never  known  what  it  feels  like  to  have  some 
one  you  love  wanting  the  necessaries  of  life. 
You  could  beg  for  them— steal  for  them  !  And 
when  I  told  you  those  things  about  the  mining 
stock,  what  did  you  think  I  meant?  What  did 
you  believe?" 

She  spoke  less  to  him  than  to  her  own  dazed 
and  miserable  consciousness,  which  moment 
by  moment  saw  new  matter  for  humiliation 
in  the  deception  of  which  she  had  been  the 
victim. 

But  Gault,  with  the  guilt  of  his  own  hateful 
suspicions  weighing  upon  him,  feared  that  she 
had  realized  his  previous  state  of  mistrust,  and 
said  fervently : 

"  If  I  did  iDelieve  what  was  a  wrong  to  you, 
forgive  me,  Viola.     I  was  a  blind  fool." 

She  raised  her  head  like  a  stag  and  transfixed 
him  with  a  sudden  glance.    Unprepared  for  the 


158  HARD-PAN 

innocence  of  her  point  of  view,  he  met  the  look 
shamefacedly,  and  in  an  instant  she  guessed 
what  he  had  suspected.  In  one  terrible  mo- 
ment, illuminated  with  a  blasting  flash  of 
memory,  she  understood  his  attitude  in  the 
past,  and  heard  again  the  words  that  had 
puzzled  and  surprised  her.  Horror  and  de- 
spair seemed  to  choke  her.  She  drew  away 
from  him,  her  eyes  full  of  tragic  accusation, 
murmuring  almost  under  her  breath : 

"You— that  I  believed  in,  and  trusted,  and 
loved ! " 

"  I  was  a  fool— a  brute !  I  know  it.  All  I 
can  say  is  to  ask  you  to  forgive  me." 

"  I  can't  forgive— or  forget.   Never— never  I " 

He  tried  again  to  take  her  hands,  but  she 
drew  back  from  him  with  what  seemed  a  fierce 
repugnance,  and  cried  wildly : 

"  Go  —  you  and  my  father,  what  have  you 
done  to  me  ?  I  can't  forgive  him,  either !  How 
can  I?  You  've  dragged  me  down,  between 
you.  You  've  destroyed  me  and  broken  my 
heart." 

"  Viola,"  he  cried  desperately,  "  listen  to  me. 
You  don't  know  my  side.  Listen  to  me  while  I 
tell  you." 

"  There  's  nothing  to  say.  I  don't  want  to 
hear.  I  know  enough.  Go— go  away  from  me ! 
Oh,  my  father !  My  poor  father !  How  could 
you !     How  could  you  !  " 


HARD-PAN  159 

She  burst  into  tears— the  most  terrible  tears 
that  he  had  ever  seen.  Throwing  herself  into 
the  colonel's  chair,  she  lay  huddled  there,  her 
face  pressed  into  the  arm,  her  slender  figure 
shaken  by  the  explosive  force  of  her  grief. 

To  his  broken  words  and  appeals  she  made 
no  answer.  He  doubted  whether  she  heard 
him.  The  storm  of  feeling,  stronger  than  he 
had  ever  supposed  her  capable  of,  swayed  her 
as  a  blast  sways  a  sapling.  Finally  he  bent 
over  her  and  rested  his  cheek  on  her  hair, 
whispering : 

"  I  want  to  do  everything  you  ask  me.  But 
before  I  go,  say  you  forgive  me." 

She  raised  herself  and  pushed  him  away. 
Her  face  was  almost  unrecognizable,  blurred 
and  swollen  with  tears. 

"  Go— go !  "  she  cried.  "  That  is  all  I  want  of 
you.  You  've  done  enough  harm  to  me.  Do 
what  I  ask  now." 

He  attempted  to  bend  over  her  and  say  some 
last  words  of  farewell,  but  she  turned  her  face 
away  from  him  and  pressed  it  into  the  uphol- 
stered arm  of  the  chair.  He  kissed  her  hair, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at  her,  then 
turned  and  crossed  the  room.  At  the  door  he 
stopped  and  looked  back. 

"  Good-by,"  he  said  hesitatingly. 

A  smothered  good-by  came  from  her.  He 
waited,  hoping  for  some  word  of  forgiveness 


160  HARD-PAN 

or  recall.  Instead,  she  said  once  more,  this 
time  pleadingly: 

"  Oh,  go !  please  go— I  want  to  be  alone." 

He  obeyed  her— softly  opened  the  door  into 
the  hall,  put  on  his  coat,  and  let  himself  out 
into  the  cold  and  fog-bedewed  night.  As  he 
fumbled  with  the  gate  he  heard  a  quick,  swing- 
ing step  coming  from  the  darkened  end  of  the 
street.  It  approached  rapidly,  and  into  the 
dense  aureole  of  light  shed  by  a  lamp  half-way 
up  the  block,  a  tall,  muscular  figure  emerged 
from  the  surrounding  blackness.  Gault  recog- 
nized the  walk  and  the  square,  erect  shoulders. 
"With  as  little  noise  as  possible  he  opened  the 
gate,  and,  turning  in  the  opposite  direction, 
passed  into  the  darkness  with  a  stealthy  tread. 

The  colonel  let  himself  in  with  his  latch-key, 
pulled  off  his  coat  in  the  hall,  and  entered  the 
drawing-room  with  the  buoyancy  that  charac- 
terized all  his  movements.  As  was  often  the 
case  in  these  days  of  prosperity,  he  carried  a 
paper  bag  full  of  fruit  and  a  box  of  candy  for 
Viola. 

To  his  eye,  dulled  by  the  darkness  without, 
the  room  looked  brilliantly  illuminated  and 
seemed  to  welcome  him  with  the  warm  and 
cheery  note  of  home.  Viola  was  standing  with 
her  back  to  him,  her  elbow  on  the  chimney- 
piece.  When  she  heard  his  step  on  the  walk 
she  had  made  a  violent  effort  to  control  herself, 


HARD-PAN  161 

had  tried  to  rub  away  the  stains  of  her  tears, 
and  had  turned  the  paper  flower  on  the  lamp- 
globe  so  that  the  light,  as  it  fell  upon  her,  was 
subdued. 

The  colonel  was  in  good  spirits.  He  laid  his 
packages  on  the  table  and  began  opening  them. 

"  Was  n't  that  Gault  that  I  saw  coming  away 
as  I  came  down  the  street  1 "  he  asked. 

Viola  said  "Yes." 

"  Why  did  n't  you  keep  him  longer  ?  I  'd 
like  to  have  seen  him.  Look  at  that  pear," 
said  the  old  man,  holding  up  a  yellow  Bartlett 
that  gleamed  like  wax  in  the  lamplight.  "Did 
you  ever  see  anything  finer  than  that?  And 
there  are  people  who  say  they  don't  like  the 
Calif ornian  fruit." 

Viola  did  not  look  at  the  pear,  but  he  was 
too  occupied  in  his  purchases  to  notice  her. 

"He  ought  to  have  stayed  till  I  came  in. 
You  ought  n't  to  have  let  him  go.  Poor  old 
Gault,  coming  out  in  all  this  wet!  It  's  a 
devil  of  a  night.  You  could  cut  the  fog  with 
a  knife.  What  did  he  have  to  say  for  him- 
self?" 

"  Nothing  much,"  said  Viola. 

"  I  don't  think  myself  he  's  much  of  a  talker. 
Now,  see  what  I  've  brought  for  you."  Viola 
heard  the  tearing  away  of  the  wrappers  that 
were  folded  around  the  candy-box.  "Look, 
young  woman ;  is  n't  that  tempting  ?  " 


162  HARD-PAN 

The  colonel  held  out  the  box.  Viola  did  not 
turn.  He  drew  it  back,  a  puzzled  expression 
on  his  face. 

"  What 's  the  matter  1 "  he  said.  "  Why  don't 
you  look  at  me !     Don't  you  feel  well  I " 

She  turned  round  slowly  and  made  a  feint  to 
take  the  box.  As  the  colonel's  glance  fell  on 
her  face  he  gave  a  sharp  exclamation  and 
started  to  his  feet. 

"  What 's  happened  I "  he  said.  "  What 's  the 
matter  with  you  ? " 

She  tried  to  tell  him,  but  could  not.  The  love 
and  honor  of  him  that  had  been  the  faith  of  her 
life  were  still  alive.  She  could  not  say  the  words 
that  would  bring  him  to  shame.  Suddenly  she 
pointed  to  the  crumpled  paper  on  the  table.  The 
colonel  snatched  it  and  pulled  it  open  while  she 
turned  away.  He  recognized  it  at  the  first 
glance. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  holding  his  head  high  and 
looking  at  her  with  a  defiant  air,  "  what  of  it  ? " 

She  made  no  answer,  and  he  went  on  vio- 
lently : 

"What  's  there  wrong  about  this  to  make 
you  cry  as  if  you  'd  lost  everything  in  the 
world,  and  Gault  to  sneak  out  of  the  house 
like  a  thief!" 

"What  's  wrong  about  it?"  she  burst  out. 
"What  's  wrong  about  you  to  make  you  ask 
such  a  question?" 


HARD-PAN  163 

"My  dear,  don't  be  so  violent,"  said  the 
colonel,  trying  to  assume  his  old  jaunty  manner. 
"  It 's  all  a  very  simple  matter,  easily  explained." 

"  Then  explain  it,  father— explain  it.  Oh,  if 
there  's  anything  to  be  said,  say  it !  " 

"It  's  merely  a  business  matter,  a  financial 
transaction  between  myself  and  Gault— nothing 
that  concerns  you." 

"  Oh,  father,  it  concerns  me  more  than  any- 
thing that  has  ever  happened  to  me  in  my  life 
before." 

Her  tone  wrung  the  colonel's  soul.  He  tried 
to  silence  his  pain  and  fear  by  a  sudden  at- 
tempt to  divert  the  blame  from  himself. 

"  Did  that  dog  —  that  mean,  underhanded 
sneak  —  come  here  to-night,  when  he  knew  I 
was  out,  to  show  you  that  paper  1 " 

His  manner  and  words  horrified  her,  and  she 
shrank  from  him. 

"  I  found  the  paper  in  your  coat.  He  tried 
to  take  it  from  me.  He  never  breathed  to  me 
or  let  me  suspect  what  you  were  doing.  To- 
night, when  I  found  the  paper,  he  tried  to  make 
me  think  it  was  all  right,  quite  an  ordinary 
thing  —  that  you  had  done  what  every  one  else 
would  have  done." 

"  Well,  then,  why  do  you  get  so  worked  up 
about  it  I  Why  should  a  business  transaction 
between  him  and  me  put  you  into  such  a  state 
of  mind  I" 


164  HARD-PAN 

"A  business  transaction?  Oh,  father,  have 
you  deceived  yourself,  or  are  you  trying  to  de- 
ceive me?  What  has  been  the  matter  with 
you  ?  How  could  you  do  it !  How  could  you 
forget  yourself  that  way— yourself  and  me !  " 

The  colonel's  bravado  began  to  give  way,  but 
he  tried  to  take  a  last  stand. 

"  If  there  was  anything  wrong,  as  you  seem 
to  think,  in  what  I  did,  you  should  n't  blame 
me  for  it.  I  did  it  for  you.  I  was  trying  to 
make  you  comfortable  and  make  things  a  little 
easier  for  you.  I  was  only  trying  the  best  way 
I  knew  to  make  you  happy." 

"  Make  me  happy !  "  she  repeated.  "  Did  you 
think  it  would  make  me  happy  to  have  a  man 
think  I  was  being  sold  to  him  ? " 

The  words  burst  from  her,  vibrating  with  all 
the  anguish  of  the  last  two  hours.  They  struck 
the  colonel  like  a  dagger  in  his  heart. 

"  Oh,  Viola !  "  he  said.     "  Viola— don't !  " 

He  began  to  tremble,  and  sat  down,  looking 
at  her  with  an  aghast,  protesting  look.  What- 
ever his  idea  had  been  in  so  openly  using 
Viola's  name  in  his  dealings  with  Gault,  he  had 
not  meant  that.  Old  age,  bitter  poverty,  tram- 
pled pride— all  had  combined  to  lower  that 
high  standard,  that  proud  self-respect,  which 
his  daughter  had  believed  to  be  his.  She  would 
never  believe  in  them  again. 

"  You  ought  n't  to  say  that,  Viola,"  he  said 


HARD-PAN  165 

in  a  low  voice;  "you  ought  n't  to  say  that 
to  me." 

She  did  not  stir,  and  he  said  again,  after  a 
moment's  pause : 

"It  's  not  right  for  you  to  say  that.  I 
thought  I  was  doing  for  the  best.  I  may  have 
done  foolishly,  but  it  was  because  I  loved 
you." 

He  spoke  heavily,  sitting  inert  and  sunken, 
with  the  lamplight  pouring  over  his  wrinkled 
face  and  white  hair. 

Suddenly  Viola  ran  toward  him.  She  put 
her  arms  round  his  neck,  close  and  warm,  and 
her  tears  fell  on  his  hair,  on  his  face,  on  his 
coat.  She  hugged  his  head  against  her  breast 
and  kissed  it  wildly,  sobbing  over  and  over : 

"  Oh,  my  poor  father !  Oh,  my  poor  father ! 
Oh,  my  poor  father !  " 

The  old  man  patted  her  head  and  said  gently : 

"  Don't— don't  go  on  that  way.  You  did  n't 
say  anything.    I  've  forgotten  it  already." 

But  she  knew  he  had  not,  and  continued 
sobbing  out  passionate,  broken  sentences : 

"  I  did  n't  mean  it— I  spoke  without  think- 
ing. Oh,  please  forget  it!  Don't  look  like 
that !  I  did  n't  mean  it— I  did  n't  mean  it  for 
a  minute." 

He  tried  to  soothe  and  comfort  her,  but  he 
himself  was  very  quiet.  When  she  had  sobbed 
herself  into  a  state  of  apathetic  exhaustion,  he 


166  HARD-PAN 

helped  her  up-stairs  to  her  room,  and  prowled 
up  and  down  in  the  passageway,  every  now 
and  then  listening  at  her  door  till  he  heard  her 
caught  breaths  regulate  themselves  into  the 
long,  regular  ones  of  heavy  sleep. 

Then  he  went  into  his  own  room.  He  did 
not  go  to  bed,  but  sat  motionless,  shrunk  to- 
gether, staring  at  the  light.  His  love  for  his 
daughter  had  been  dear  to  him,  but  a  thousand 
times  dearer  had  been  his  realization  of  her 
love  for  him.  When  all  the  world  had  turned 
its  back  on  him,  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
still  believed  in,  watched  for,  cherished  by  this 
one  young  girl  had  made  life  as  well  worth  liv- 
ing as  it  had  been  in  the  days  of  his  glory. 
And  now  he  had  lost  that— it  was  gone  forever. 
He  was  an  old  man,  and  to-night  he  had 
received  his  death-blow. 

The  day  after  his  scene  with  Viola  was  the 
happiest  John  Gault  had  known  for  many 
months.  The  memory  of  her  pain,  of  her  tears, 
of  her  humiliation,  could  not  outweigh  the  joy 
he  felt  in  her  exculpation.  Even  his  own 
shame  at  the  meanness  of  the  part  he  had 
played  was  pushed  aside  by  this  pervasive, 
irradiating,  uplifting  sense  of  happiness.  No 
cloud,  no  shadow  of  disbelief,  could  ever  come 
between  them  now.  He  could  love  her  with- 
out mistrust,  without  fear,  without  suspi- 
cion.    He  would  absorb  her,  envelop  her,  in- 


HARD-PAN  167 

wrap  her  in  the  might  of  his  passion.  He  had 
wronged  her  bitterly,  but  with  what  limitless 
tenderness,  what  depths  of  devotion,  would  he 
make  up  for  it !  He  was  troubled  by  no  doubts 
as  to  her  feeling  for  him.  The  memory  of  the 
light  in  her  eyes  as  they  met  his,  of  the  flush  on 
the  cheek,  were  enough.  Viola  was  his  when 
he  chose  to  claim  her. 

Still,  the  deliberative  habits  of  his  curiously 
sensitive  and  conventional  nature  were  stronger 
than  the  force  of  his  last  and  deepest  attach- 
ment. Three  days  followed  his  interview  with 
Viola,  and  he  had  not  yet  gone  to  see  her.  He 
could  not  bring  himself  to  intrude  upon  her. 
Her  girl's  passion  of  shame  and  grief  seemed 
a  sanctuary  into  which  no  man's  coarse  eye 
should  look.  He  thought  of  her  with  a  deep, 
almost  reverential  tenderness,  but  he  did  not 
feel  as  if  he  ought  to  see  her  till  the  first 
anguish  of  her  discovery  had  spent  itself. 
Then— then— he  would  take  her  in  his  arms, 
and  there  would  be  nothing  to  say,  only  to  ask 
her  to  forgive  him,  to  hear  her  say  it,  and 
then  happiness— happiness— happiness— on  to 
the  end  of  time. 

On  the  fourth  day  he  decided  to  send  her 
some  flowers.  But  after  he  had  bought  them 
it  seemed  to  him  so  meaningless,  so  banal,  to 
send  such  a  formal  offering,  one  that-  he  had 
sent  so  often  to  women  for  whom  his  senti- 


168  HARD-PAN 

ments  were  so  widely  different,  that  lie  sud- 
denly changed  his  mind,  and  ordered  the 
flowers  to  be  sent  to  his  sister-in-law,  who  was 
just  then  in  town.  When  he  walked  away 
from  the  florist's  he  looked  rather  ashamed  of 
himself  and  of  his  burst  of  sentiment.  But 
what  did  he  want  to  send  her  flowers  for?  He 
wanted  to  see  her,  to  take  her  hands  in  his  and 
look  down  deep  into  those  beautiful  gray  eyes 
and  say— perhaps  not  say  anything.  She  and 
he  understood. 

He  made  up  his  mind  that  he  would  go  on 
the  morrow,  and  on  this  decision  he  went  to 
sleep  with  a  light  heart.  In  the  morning  he 
was  awakened  by  a  messenger  to  say  that  his 
brother  Mortimer  had  returned  from  the  coun- 
try seriously  ill.  He  was  at  the  house  on  Pacific 
Avenue  inside  an  hour.  Mortimer  had  come 
home  a  week  before  with  a  bad  cold  which  had 
developed  into  a  dangerous  case  of  pneumonia. 
Maud  G-ault  was  helpless  and  distracted.  Her 
brother-in-law  spent  the  day  in  attending  to 
the  numerous  duties  which  crop  up  with  sick- 
ness, and  in  the  evening  telegraphed  for  Letitia. 

For  the  four  following  days  Mortimer  Gault 
hung  between  life  and  death,  brooded  over  by 
a  frantic  wife,  three  doctors,  two  nurses,  a  fond 
sister-in-law,  and  an  extremely  anxious  brother. 
The  tie  between  the  two  men  was  very  close — 
John  had  never  realized  how  close  till  those 


HARD-PAN  169 

four  days  of  desperate  anxiety  were  over. 
During  this  time,  as  he  sat  either  by  his  brother's 
bedside  or  in  one  of  the  rooms  adjoining,  or 
made  hasty  visits  to  his  office,  he  thought  of 
Viola  and  wondered  if  she  was  puzzled  by  his 
lengthened  absence.  He  did  not  think  that  she 
would  misunderstand  it.  Like  many  men,  he 
took  it  for  granted  that  her  knowledge  of  his 
character  and  affairs  had  been  as  thorough  as 
the  knowledge  his  superior  insight  and  ex- 
perience had  given  him  into  all  that  pertained 
to  her. 

On  the  sixth  day  after  his  brother's  sum- 
mons Mortimer  was  pronounced  out  of  danger. 
This  was  the  first  opportunity  John  had  had  of 
seeing  Viola. 

At  four  o'clock  he  alighted  from  the  car  that 
had  carried  him  across  town  to  the  old  quarter 
about  South  Park.  As  he  passed  through  the 
dingy  side  streets  holiday  reigned  in  his  heart. 
Life  in  the  past  seemed  dun  and  dreary  com- 
pared to  what  it  had  become  under  the  influ- 
ence of  the  still,  almost  rapt  joy  which  now 
possessed  him.  An  immense,  deep  tenderness 
seemed  to  well  from  his  heart  over  all  his  being. 
His  love  for  Viola  seemed  to  have  made  him 
see  and  feel  all  that  was  love- worthy  in  others  — 
in  the  children  that  ran  across  his  path  or  played 
in  chattering  groups  in  the  gutters,  the  women 
he  met  trudging  home  with  baskets  on  their 


170  HARD-PAN 

arms,  the  lean-shanked  boys  playing  ball  in  the 
deserted  gardens,  the  tousled  young  matrons 
exchanging  gossip  from  open  upper  windows. 
He  had  never  noticed  these  people  before,  save 
with  cold  repugnance;  now  he  seemed  to  be 
able  to  see  into  them  and  note  their  justifiable 
ambitions,  their  unselfish  struggles,  their 
smiling,  patient  courage.  The  thought  passed 
through  his  mind  that  perhaps  this  exalted,  un- 
usual affection  was  the  love  of  the  future  state, 
the  happiness  that  awaits  the  liberated  soul. 

He  turned  the  last  corner  and  came  in  sight 
of  the  house.  For  the  first  few  advancing  steps 
he  did  not  realize  what  gave  it  an  unfamiliar 
look.  Then,  as  he  approached,  he  saw  that  the 
vines  which  had  hung  in  bunches  about  the 
bay-window  were  cut  away.  There  were  frilled 
white  curtains  in  the  lower  windows.  He  drew 
near,  staring  astonished  through  his  glasses, 
each  step  revealing  some  innovation. 

They  were  evidently  renovating  the  whole 
place.  The  two  thick-set  brick  posts  that  sup- 
ported the  gate  had  been  painted.  The  steps 
to  the  porch  had  been  mended  with  new  wood. 
Then,  as  he  put  his  hand  forward  to  unlatch  the 
gate,  he  saw  a  woman— a  broad-backed,  red- 
necked woman  in  a  blue  print  dress  —  kneeling 
on  the  ground  just  below  the  bay-window,  evi- 
dently gardening.  The  sight  surprised  him  into 
immobility,  and  for  a  moment  he  stood  motion- 


HARD-PAN  171 

less,  gazing  at  the  back  of  her  head,  where  her 
hair  was  twisted  into  a  tight  and  uncompromis- 
ing coil  about  as  big  as  a  silver  dollar. 

The  next  moment  he  pressed  the  latch,  and 
the  gate  opened  with  a  click.  The  woman 
started  and  turned  round.  Evidently  greatly 
surprised  at  the  figure  her  glance  encountered, 
she  straightened  herself  from  her  stooping  pos- 
ture, eying  him  curiously  and  wiping  her 
earthy  hands  on  her  apron. 

"  Is  Miss  Reed  in  ? "  he  said,  advancing  up 
the  flagged  walk. 

"  Miss  Reed  I "  said  the  woman  "  No.  She 
ain't  here  any  more." 

Grault  stopped. 

"  What  do  you  mean! "  he  asked.  "  Colonel 
Reed  lives  here." 

"Not  now,"  said  the  woman,  struggling  to 
her  feet.  "  He  did  until  last  week.  We  bought 
the  place  off  of  him  just  seven  days  ago,  and 
moved  in  Tuesday." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  he  has  sold  it  and  gone 
away  I " 

"  That  's  it.  We  rushed  it  through,  both  of 
us.  He  wanted  to  sell  'bout  as  much  as  we 
wanted  to  buy,  so  there  was  n't  much  time 
wasted  on  either  side." 

"  Had  he  thought  of  selling  it  for  any  length 
of  time  1 " 

"  I  can't  rightly  say  as  to  that.     We  've  had 


172  HARD-PAN 

our  eyes  on  it  for  the  past  five  years.  My  hus- 
band—he 's  Robson,  the  dry-goods  dealer,  on 
Third,  just  below  here  —  was  pretty  well  satis- 
fied that  the  colonel  could  n't  hang  on  to  it  for- 
ever. 'Bout  three  years  ago  he  offered  him 
three  thousand.  But  the  old  man  would  n't 
hear  of  it.  Said  he  would  n't  even  raise  a  mort- 
gage on  it,  as  it  was  all  he  had  to  leave  to  his 
daughter  when  he  died.  But  we  knew  he 
could  n't  hold  out  much  longer.  He  did  n't  have 
no  work,  nor  nothing  to  live  on.  Miss  Reed 
she  made  a  little,  but  not  enough  to  run 
everything,  and  —  " 

"Yes  —  I  know  all  about  that.  When  did 
you  say  they  left ! " 

"On  Monday,  and  we  moved  in  Tuesday. 
Saturday  the  old  man  came  round  to  Mr.  Rob- 
son's  place  and  said  he  'd  let  him  have  the  house 
for  anything  he  chose  to  give.  There  ain't 
nothing  mean  about  Mr.  Robson.  He  could  'a' 
beat  the  colonel  down  to  'most  anything,  but  he 
said  he  'd  give  him  two  thousand  cash  down, 
and  the  old  man  just  jumped  at  it.  Mr.  Robson 
said  it  would  'a'  been  business  to  get  the  colonel 
to  a  lower  figure,  and  he  said  he  supposed  he 
would  'a'  done  it  if  it  had  n't  been  for  the  daugh- 
ter. She  was  sick,  and  the  old  man  said  he  'd 
got  to  have  money  to  take  her  away." 

"  Sick  ?  —  seriously  sick ! " 

"  Well,  as  to  that  I  can't  say.     But  she  was 


HARD-PAN  173 

about  the  peakedest-looking  girl  I  ever  seen. 
I  was  awful  sorry  for  them." 

"  Where  have  they  gone  I " 

"  I  ain't  able  to  say." 

"  But  you  surely  have  some  idea  of  where 
they  've  moved  to  ?  Did  n't  they  say  something 
about  their  intentions?  Did  n't  the  colonel 
tell  your  husband  in  reference  to  the  transfer 
of  the  money?" 

"  They  did  n't  neither  of  'em  say  a  word. 
They  're  the  most  close-mouthed  pair  I  ever 
ran  into.  My  husband  paid  the  money  down 
in  cash  the  day  we  moved  in.  They  took  it,  and 
that 's  all  I  know  about  them." 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  some  one  about  here  who 
may  know  more— some  of  the  tradespeople — 
butchers,  grocers,  that  sort  of  thing  1 " 

"  You  might  try  Goggles,  the  grocer  at  the 
corner.  I  think  they  had  an  account  with  him. 
But  they  did  n't  deal  regular  with  any  one 
else." 

Gault  thanked  her  and  turned  to  go.  She 
followed  him  down  the  walk,  anxious  to  be 
agreeable,  for  his  manner  and  appearance  had 
impressed  her  immensely. 

"  If  I  hear  anything  about  them  I  '11  let  you 
know,"  she  said  affably. 

"  Thanks ;  it 's  very  good  of  you,"  he  answered, 
opening  the  gate.  But  he  had  no  intention  of 
giving  her  either  his  name  or  address,  as  he  did 


174  HARD-PAN 

not  for  a  moment  think  that  this  disappearance 
of  the  Eeeds  was  other  than  temporary. 

At  the  corner  he  stopped  and  inquired  for 
them  at  Goggles  the  grocer's.  Goggles  himself 
answered  his  inquiries.  He  had  even  less  in- 
formation to  give  than  Mrs.  Robson.  A  week 
before  the  colonel  had  paid  such  small  amounts 
as  he  yet  owed,  and  had  casually  mentioned 
the  fact  that  he  had  sold  his  house  and  was 
about  to  leave  the  city.  This  was  all  Goggles 
knew.  He  showed  some  desire  to  talk  over  the 
colonel's  pecuniary  difficulties,  but  Gault  cut 
him  short  and  left  the  store. 

Gault  walked  away,  feeling  dazed  and  hardly 
master  of  himself.  It  had  been  so  absolutely 
unexpected  that  he  did  not  yet  send  his  mind 
back  over  their  past  intercourse  to  ask  what 
she  might  have  been  thinking  since  he  saw  her 
last.  As  is  the  case  of  the  man  in  love,  he  had 
seen  the  situation  only  from  his  own  side.  But 
he  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt  that  he  would 
hear  from  her  within  the  next  few  days. 

He  was  still  with  his  brother  a  good  deal  of 
the  time,  and  the  days  that  followed  passed 
with  the  swiftness  which  characterizes  hours 
filled  with  various  anxieties.  Four  days  after 
learning  of  her  flight,  two  weeks  from  the  even- 
ing that  he  had  seen  her  last,  the  janitor  at  his 
office  handed  him  a  small  but  heavy  package. 
It  had  been  left  early  in  the  morning  by  a  boy. 


HARD-PAN  175 

the  janitor  said,  who  had  merely  asked  if  this 
was  Mr.  John  Gault's  office,  and  had  then 
hastened  away. 

An  instinct  told  him  it  was  from  her,  and  he 
shut  himself  into  his  inner  office  before  he 
opened  it.  It  was  a  rough  wooden  box,  and 
contained  the  money  given  by  him  to  the 
colonel— five  hundred  and  ten  dollars  in  gold 
coin.  Lying  on  the  top  was  a  slip  of  paper 
bearing  the  words :  "  Good-by.    Viola." 

Still  he  could  not  but  believe  that  she  would 
soon  reveal  her  whereabouts.  The  move  was 
occupying  her,  and  such  an  operation  would 
seem  a  gigantic  undertaking  to  her  youthful 
inexperience.  That  she  should  treat  him  this 
way  was  thoughtless,  cruel  even,  but  she  had 
been  deeply  wounded,  and  her  hurt  was  evi- 
dently still  sore.     He  could  only  wait  patiently. 

He  did  so  for  two  weeks,  his  uncertainties 
growing  into  fears,  his  conviction  of  her  inten- 
tion to  communicate  with  him  gradually  weak- 
ening. Uneasiness  gave  place  to  alarm.  For 
the  first  time  the  haunting  thought  that  she  had 
gone  from  him  purposely,  fled  forever  from  his 
love,  entered  his  mind. 

Finally,  unable  to  endure  the  anxiety  that 
now  beset  him,  he  commissioned  a  private  de- 
tective agency  to  run  to  earth  the  boy  who  had 
brought  the  money.  He  supposed  it  had  come 
directly  from  her,  and  that,  through  the  boy, 


176  HARD-PAN 

without  drawing  her  into  the  affair,  her  hiding- 
place  could  be  discovered. 

The  finding  of  the  boy  was  not  so  simple  a 
matter  as  might  have  been  supposed.  It  re- 
quired a  week's  search  to  locate  him.  He  was 
the  only  son  of  a  poor  widow  living  near  South 
Park,  who  had  done  the  Reeds'  washing.  Be- 
fore her  departure  Miss  Eeed  had  commis- 
sioned him  to  deliver  the  package  at  Mr, 
Gault's  office  at  a  certain  date,  and  at  an  hour 
when  there  would  be  no  chance  of  his  coming 
into  personal  contact  with  Mr.  Gault  himself. 

Grault  snatched  at  this  meager  information, 
and  lost  no  time  in  seeking  out  the  widow  in 
her  own  home.  She  was  a  good-natured  and 
loquacious  Irish-American,— Mrs.  Cassidy  by 
name,— and  was  full  of  terror  at  the  thought 
that  detectives  had  been  occupied  in  discover- 
ing her  place  of  abode.  Her  fears,  however, 
were  soon  allayed,  and  she  became  exceedingly 
discursive.  But  when  it  came  to  information 
of  Viola,  she  could  tell  no  more  than  the  others. 

Before  Miss  Reed  had  left  the  city  she  had 
given  the  package  to  the  boy,  with  the  instruc- 
tions that  he  should  not  deliver  it  till  the  day 
set  by  her,  some  time  after  her  departure.  Of 
her  own  volition  Mrs.  Cassidy  stated  that  she 
thought  Miss  Reed  did  not  want  any  one  to 
know  where  she  went.  Mrs.  Cassidy  had  con- 
ferred with  others  of  her  kind  in  the  locality, 


HARD-PAN  177 

and  the  silent  and  hasty  departure  of  the 
Reeds  had  been  matter  of  comment.  The 
shrewd  Irishwoman  saw  that  there  was  a  mys- 
terious romance  here,  and  her  glance  dwelt 
with  compassionate  curiosity  upon  the  gentle- 
man who  was  sufficiently  interested  in  the 
pretty  girl  they  had  all  known  by  sight  to  em- 
ploy detectives  to  hunt  for  her. 

The  finding  of  the  boy  and  the  interview 
with  Mrs.  Cassidy  broke  down  the  last  of  Gault's 
hopes.  He  now  knew  that  Viola  had  inten- 
tionally fled  from  him.  At  first,  when  no  word 
came  from  her,  and  Mrs.  Robson's  description 
of  her  as  ill  was  fresh  in  his  mind,  he  had  a 
terrible  fear  that  she  might  have  died.  But  a 
later  judgment  convinced  him  that  had  this 
been  the  case  he  would  have  heard  from  the 
colonel.  Viola  was  living — hiding  somewhere 
from  him,  restraining  her  father  from  commu- 
nicating with  him,  which,  Gault  knew,  would 
be  the  old  man's  wish  and  intention. 

And  now,  with  the  blankness  of  her  ab- 
sence deadening  his  heart,  for  the  first  time 
he  began  to  understand  what  she  must  have 
thought  and  felt— began  to  see  the  situation 
with  her  eyes.  He  thought  of  her,  loving 
and  believing  in  him  as  he  knew  she  had 
always  done,  suddenly  waking  to  the  know- 
ledge that  he  had  suspected  her.  He  saw  her 
living  over  again  those  conversations  in  which 


178  HARD-PAN 

he  had  half  revealed  his  groundless  doubts, 
had  tried  to  find  confirmation  of  them  in  the 
halting  admissions  of  her  puzzled  ignorance. 
And  with  her  comprehension  of  the  light  in 
which  he  had  been  regarding  her  came  that 
coup  de  grace  of  all  doubts  in  his  favor— the 
giving  of  the  money. 

With  a  clearness  of  vision  that  was  like 
clairvoyance,  he  seemed  to  be  able  to  read  down 
into  the  depths  of  her  consciousness,  to  see 
into  the  hidden  places  of  the  nature  he  had 
once  thought  so  jealously  secretive.  In  the 
gnawing  bitterness  of  his  remorse  he  realized 
that  she  had  believed  herself  tricked,  that  the 
hand  she  had  thought  stretched  to  her  in 
kindly  fellowship  in  reality  concealed  a  trap. 
Where  she  had  looked  for  protection,  support, 
and  love,  she  had  found  what  now  presented 
itself  to  her  as  a  sinister  and  cruel  craftiness. 
Her  best  friend  had  turned  out  to  be  her  most 
unrelenting  enemy. 

In  the  loneliness  of  that  long  summer  he 
came  face  to  face  with  despair.  He  had  lost 
her  by  his  own  mad  folly.  Remorse  for  the 
wrong  he  had  done  her  alternated  in  his 
thoughts  with  an  unquenchable  longing  to  see 
her  again.  His  heart  craved  for  her,  even  if  only 
for  a  single  moment's  glimpse.  A  younger 
man  would  have  shaken  off  the  gloom  of  his 
first  great  disappointment,  have  told  himself 


HARD-PAN  179 

that  there  were  other  eyes  as  sweet  and  hearts 
as  true.  But  with  him  the  elasticity  of  youth 
was  gone.  There  was  no  forming  of  new  ties, 
no  delight  in  fresh  faces.  Life  had  offered  him 
supreme  happiness,  and  he  had  let  it  pass  by 
him.  Like  the  base  Indian,  he  had  "  thrown  a 
pearl  away  richer  than  all  his  tribe." 

The  summer  held  the  city  in  its  spell  of  wind 
and  fog.  Acquaintances  who  encountered  one 
another  on  its  wide  thoroughfares  said  town 
was  empty— not  a  soul  left  in  it.  The  Mortimer 
Gaults  took  themselves  away  for  rest  and  re- 
cuperation to  balsamic  mountain  gorges  among 
the  redwoods.  Letitia  returned  to  the  hotels 
and  the  Hacienda  del  Pinos.  John  Gault  was 
left  alone  with  his  empty  heart.  If  she  had 
died  it  would  have  been  bearable.  The  inevita- 
bleness  of  death  makes  us  bow  to  its  blows  with 
broken  submission.  But  she  was  alive— poor, 
sick,  her  love  disprized,  her  pride  trampled  on, 
driven  away  from  all  that  was  familiar  and 
friendly  to  her  by  fear  of  him. 

The  winds  beat  and  tore  through  the  city,  buf- 
feting the  passers-by  and  sweeping  street  and 
alley.  Then,  as  the  color  deepened  toward  even- 
ing, their  stress  and  clamor  suddenly  ceased,  a 
burst  of  radiance  ran  from  the  Golden  Gate  up 
the  sky,  glazing  the  level  floor  of  the  bay  and 
flaring  on  all  the  western  windows.  It  stayed 
for  a  space,  seeming  to  immerse  the  town  in  an 


180  HARD-PAN 

atmosphere  of  beaten  gold,  as  if  for  one  brief 
half -hour  it  was  transformed  into  the  glistening 
El  Dorado  of  the  early  settlers'  dreams.  Then 
the  fog  stole  noiselessly  in,  and  the  houses 
crowding  to  the  summits  of  the  hills,  the  rose- 
red  clouds,  and  the  clear  purple  distances  were 
blotted  out. 

That  went  on  day  by  day  till  the  autumn 
came.  The  winds  dropped  and  the  sun  shone 
all  day.  In  the  country  the  air  was  clear  and 
heavy  with  sweet,  aromatic  scents.  All  the 
fields  were  parched  and  sun-dried  like  hemp; 
only  the  thick-growing,  bushy  trees  defied  the 
drought,  remaining  green  and  hardy.  The  great 
hills  were  scorched  to  a  smooth  yellow,  with  a 
few  green  tree-tufts  slipped  down  into  their 
valleys  where  the  watercourses  were  not  quite 
dry. 

In  town  it  was  all  still  and  golden  and  hot. 
The  city,  queening  it  on  its  hills,  rose  in  an 
atmosphere  of  crystal  clearness  from  a  girdle 
of  sapphire  sea.  In  the  evening  the  smoke  lay 
lightly  over  it,  and  the  sun  glared  through  like 
a  great,  inquisitive  eye.  Poor  people  in  the 
old  districts  were  ill  from  lack  of  rain  and  from 
unclean  sewers.  Rich  people  were  coming  back, 
looking  sunburnt  and  healthy  from  their  sum- 
mer in  the  open  air. 

The  Gaults  came  up  out  of  their  lounging- 
place  in  the  redwoods,  I'obust  and  blooming. 


HARD-PAN  181 

Mortimer  quite  restored  to  health,  and  Maud 
two  shades  darker  with  her  country  tan.  Le- 
titia,  with  three  trunks  of  ruined  mihinery,  ap- 
peared from  the  hotels,  and  the  town  house  was 
once  more  alive. 

They  had  seen  little  of  John  since  they  left 
for  the  country,  and  it  was  not  strange  that 
Maud  Gault,  after  his  first  visit,  should  have 
said  to  her  husband : 

"What  's  the  matter  with  John?  All  of  a 
sudden  he  looks  quite  old." 

"  Nothing,"  said  the  loyal  Mortimer ;  "  only  a 
fellow  can't  be  expected  to  look  young  forever. 
John  's  not  like  a  woman :  he  does  n't  keep  the 
same  age  for  twenty  years." 


VI 


THE  selling  of  the  house  and  the  subsequent 
flight  of  the  Eeeds  had  been,  as  Gault 
had  guessed,  Viola's  idea.  When,  the  morning 
after  those  two  soul-destroying  interviews,  she 
had  come  down,  white  and  apathetic,  and  had 
told  her  father  that  she  wanted  to  leave  the 
city,  the  old  man,  in  a  desperate  desire  to  rein- 
state himself  in  her  regard,  had  been  willing  to 
accede  to  anything. 

Pressed  by  Viola,  he  had  hurried  through  the 
sale,  had  taken  the  small  sum  Robson  had 
offered  without  demur,  and,  driven  by  her  fever- 
ish anxiety,  had  paid  off  all  their  household 
debts  and  handed  to  her  the  remaining  money. 
This,  with  himself,  he  had  placed  entirely  in 
her  hands.  As  the  girl  locked  it  into  the  small 
tin  box  in  which  she  kept  such  valuables  as 
they  possessed,  she  had  suddenly  looked  at  it, 
and  then  at  him,  and  finally  said : 

"  But  the  mortgage  ?  Was  n't  there  interest 
or  something  to  pay  on  that  ? " 

"Mortgage!"  said  the  colonel,  in  innocent 
surprise.     "  What  mortgage  ? " 


HARD-PAN  183 

Viola  looked  away  from  him  and  murmured 
something  about  being  mixed  up.  She  saw 
that  he  had  forgotten  the  story  by  which,  three 
years  ago,  he  had  accounted  to  her  for  the  first 
sudden  era  of  prosperity.  She  felt,  with  a 
dreary  indifference,  that  she  did  not  care  where 
that  money  had  come  from.  She,  at  least,  had 
not  been  put  forward  as  a  means  of  procuring  it. 

The  breathless  hurry  of  their  departure,  and 
the  quantity  of  work  that  accumulates  about  the 
breaking  up  of  even  so  small  a  household,  gave 
her  no  time  for  the  indulgence  of  her  own  bit- 
ter thoughts.  The  days  passed  in  a  turmoil  of 
noise  and  movement.  In  a  nightmare  atmo- 
sphere of  dust  and  strange  faces  she  haggled 
with  the  Jews  from  the  second-hand  stores  on 
Mission  Street,  listened  to  their  sarcastic  com- 
ments on  the  old  pieces  of  furniture  she  had 
passed  her  life  among,  watched  them  with  dull 
eyes  as  they  tested  the  springs  of  the  colonel's 
chair  and  rubbed  between  appraising  fingers 
the  curtains  his  young  bride  had  bought 
twenty-four  years  before.  At  night  she  crept 
into  her  bed,  too  exhausted  for  thought,  to  lose 
herself  in  blessed  gulfs  of  sleep. 

She  was  possessed  by  a  wild  desire  to  escape 
from  the  house  and  the  city.  The  scene  of  her 
humiliation  had  become  intolerable  to  her,  and 
deep  in  her  heart  lay  the  terror  that  if  she  re- 
mained it  would  be  the  scene  of  her  downfall. 


184  HARD-PAN 

The  thought  of  Gault's  reappearance  filled  her 
with  dread.  She  was  confident  of  his  return, 
and  his  return  as  the  conqueror  who  had 
gaged  her  weakness  and  his  own  power.  All 
her  trust  in  him  had  been  shattered  at  a  blow. 
Suddenly  he  had  appeared  to  her,  not  as  the 
lover  whose  highest  wish  was  for  her  happi- 
ness, but  as  the  master,  cruel  and  relentless, 
the  owner  who  had  bought  and  paid  for  her. 
The  shame  of  the  thought  that  she  still  loved 
him  caused  her  to  bow  her  face  upon  her  breast, 
hiding  it  from  the  eyes  of  men  and  the  light  of 
day.  All  she  could  whisper  in  her  own  justifi- 
cation was  the  words,  "  But  when  I  grew  to 
love  him  I  never  knew— I  never  guessed  for  a 
minute  what  he  meant." 

She  wanted  to  begin  all  over  again,  to  be  an- 
other person  in  another  place.  The  charm  of 
home  had  vanished  from  the  little  house.  She 
longed  to  put  it  behind  her,  to  be  a  different 
woman  from  the  Viola  Eeed  who  once  within 
its  narrow  walls  had  known  the  taste  of  hap- 
piness. 

She  was  so  engrossed  in  her  own  sorrows 
that  she  thought  nothing  of  her  father,  hereto- 
fore the  first  consideration  of  her  life.  She 
told  him  what  he  should  do,  and  he  did  it  un- 
questioniugly.  Though  no  more  angry  words 
had  passed  between  them,  it  seemed  to  the 
frightened  old  man  as  if  every  day  she  receded 


HARD-PAN  185 

further  from  him.  His  only  thought  was  to 
repair  the  damage  he  had  done,  to  climb  back 
somehow  into  his  old  position.  He  tried  to 
anticipate  her  every  wish,  and  followed  her 
about  with  humble  offers  of  help.  But  when, 
during  those  days  of  work  and  hurry,  her  eyes 
met  his,  they  seemed  to  him  to  have  a  hard  and 
alien  gleam.  It  struck  upon  his  somewhat 
vague  contrition  like  an  icy  wind.  If  she  had 
been  gay  and  talkative  he  would  have  forgotten 
the  wrong  he  had  done  her  in  twenty-four 
hours,  and  been  ready  to  laugh  with  her  at 
Gault.  But  she  seemed  now  to  have  suddenly 
ranged  herself  against  him  on  Gault's  side,  and 
to  have  left  him,  chilled  and  solitary,  out  in 
the  cold. 

So  when  she  told  him  they  would  go  to  Sac- 
ramento, though  the  thought  of  change  turned 
his  heart  to  lead,  he  agreed  with  a  good  grace. 
He  also  acquiesced  in  aU  her  injunctions  about 
keeping  their  place  of  refuge  a  secret.  When 
she  told  him  of  her  plan  to  return  Gault's 
money,  he  controlled  his  desire  to  disagree 
with  it,  and  accepted  her  decision  without  open 
murmur.  It  seemed  to  him  an  unnecessary 
waste.  What  were  the  few  paltry  hundreds  to 
the  rich  man  ?  The  colonel  had  been  rich,  too, 
and  had  aided  hundreds  of  needy  ones  without 
ever  thinking  of  repayment.  By  some  obscure 
mental  processes  he  had  come  to  believe  that 


186  HARD-PAN 

Gault  wanted  the  money.  Now  that  the 
younger  man  had  come  between  him  and  Viola, 
his  feeling  for  him  had  become  sharply  hostile. 
It  was  only  fear  of  reopening  a  disagreeable 
subject  that  prevented  him  from  abusing  his 
former  friend  to  his  daughter. 

They  left  the  city  with  very  different  feel- 
ings. To  the  colonel  his  departure  was  as  the 
dragging  out  of  every  fiber.  The  roots  of  his  life 
seemed  to  have  struck  deep  down  into  that 
sandy  soil.  His  horizon  had  always  been 
bounded  by  the  long  lines  of  gray  houses,  by 
the  girdling  blue  of  the  bay.  To  the  girl  it 
seemed  a  flight  from  shame  and  misery.  She 
was  not  escaping  from  it :  part  of  it  would  go 
with  her  always;  but  she  was  putting  behind 
her  her  own  weakness  and  the  temptation  and 
despair  that  the  weakness  of  others  had  brought 
upon  her. 

As  the  train  carried  them  farther  away,  as 
the  bay  faded  out  of  sight,  and  the  scarred  and 
dwarf  scrub-oaks  gave  place  to  the  stately  trees 
of  the  valleys,  she  felt  her  breath  come  with 
the  sigh  of  a  deep  relief,  and  to  her  blank  heart 
whispered  the  consolation,  "It  's  over  and 
done.     I  shall  never  see  him  again." 

At  Sacramento  they  found  shelter  in  a  cheap 
boarding-house.  It  was  a  large  old  house  on  a 
side  street,  set  back  from  the  publicity  of  the 
thoroughfare    in    an    extensive    garden.    The 


HARD-PAN  187 

garden  was  so  far  cared  for  that  it  was  watered, 
and  the  palms  and  aloes  and  fig-trees  had 
reached  a  mighty  growth;  but  its  paths  were 
weed-grown,  and  the  statues  and  urns  raised 
by  its  original  owners  lay  overturned  in  the 
rank  grass. 

The  house  itself,  dropping  fast  into  peeling, 
unpainted  decay,  was  commodious,  with  the 
high,  airy  rooms  that  were  built  in  the  days 
when  all  Californians  seemed  to  be  prosperous, 
and  space  was  not  too  valuable  to  be  sacrificed 
to  comfort.  The  rooms  still  showed  traces  of 
their  fine  beginnings.  There  were  exceedingly 
bad  and  elaborate  frescos  on  the  lofty  ceilings 
of  the  lower  floor,  and  great  mirrors  incased  in 
gold  moldings  crowned  the  mantelpieces.  In 
the  musty,  unaired  parlors,  where  the  puckered 
inside  shades  of  faded  silk  were  always  down 
to  keep  the  sun  from  revealing  the  threadbare 
secrets  of  the  pale  old  carpets  and  the  frayed 
satin  arm-chairs,  the  colonel  felt  as  if  he  were 
having  a  nightmare  of  the  old  days.  It  was 
all  so  like  in  its  largeness,  its  rich  stiffness,  its 
obvious  expensiveness,  but  so  terribly  imlike  in 
its  stuffy,  squalid,  unclean  penury. 

In  the  evening  at  dinner  they  met  their  fel- 
low-boarders. The  wide  dining-room,  with 
long  windows  opening  on  one  of  the  many  bal- 
conies that  projected  from  the  walls,  showed 
the  same  frescos,  the  same  pale,  rose-strewn 


188  HARD-PAN 

ca,rpet,  tlie  same  cumbrous  pieces  of  furniture, 
that,  forty  years  back,  some  mining  prince 
had  brought  round  the  Horn  in  a  sailing-ship. 
The  smell  of  hundreds  of  boarding-house  din- 
ners hung  in  the  folds  of  the  dingy  lace  cur- 
tains. From  a  crystal  chandelier,  lacking  most 
of  its  pendants,  a  garish  burst  of  light  fell 
over  the  table,  where  much  plated  ware  and 
pressed  glass  made  a  glittering  array  on  a  dirty 
cloth. 

At  the  head  of  the  board  sat  Mrs.  Seymour, 
the  landlady,  and  beside  her  her  only  child, 
Corinne,  a  sharp-faced  little  girl  of  eight,  who, 
leaning  with  her  elbows  on  the  table,  let  her 
glance,  shrewd,  penetrating,  and  amused,  pass 
from  face  to  face.  Mrs.  Seymour,  a  large 
woman  of  a  countenance  originally  buxomly 
pleasant,  but  hardened  by  contact  with  the 
world  as  the  boarding-house  keeper  meets  it, 
introduced  the  newcomers.  They  presented  a 
curious  contrast  to  their  fellows.  The  colonel, 
whose  social  tastes  had  not  fallen  with  his  for- 
tunes, was  a  trifle  puzzled  by  the  society  in 
which  he  found  himself.  At  the  same  time  his 
gregarious  spirit  was  cheered  to  see  that  there 
were  other  people  in  the  house.  He  bowed  to 
the  lady  on  his  right,  introduced  as  Miss  Mer- 
cer, with  elaborate  gallantry,  and  drawing  out 
her  chair,  stood  waiting  for  her  to  seat  herself. 
The  recipient  of  this  unexpected  courtesy  did 


HARD-PAN  189 

not  know  how  to  take  it,  for  the  moment  sus- 
pecting some  joke. 

To  Viola  the  strange  faces  seemed  unlovely 
and  forbidding.  She  had  met  few  people  in 
her  life,  and  this  sudden  plunge  into  society 
was  a  portentous  experience.  Pale  and  silent 
under  the  glare  of  the  chandelier,  she  nibbled 
at  her  food,  having  neither  heart  nor  courage 
to  speak.  When  she  raised  her  eyes  she  saw 
the  young  man  opposite— Mrs.  Seymour  had 
presented  him  as  "  Bart  Nelson,  our  prize  young 
man"— staring  at  her  over  his  plate  with  a 
steady,  ruminating  air.  As  he  met  her  eyes  for 
the  second  time,  he  said : 

"Off  your  feed?" 

And  then,  in  reply  to  the  colonel's  look  of 
uneasy  inquiry,  jerked  his  head  toward  Viola 
and  said : 

"Mrs.  Seymour  ain't  goin'  to  lose  anything 
by  her." 

Mrs.  Seymour  replied  that  she  wanted  some- 
body like  that  to  even  things  off  against  such 
an  appetite  as  Mr.  Nelson's. 

The  laugh  then  was  on  the  prize  young  man, 
and  he  joined  in  it  as  heartily  as  the  others. 

Miss  Mercer,  who,  it  appeared,  was  a  school- 
teacher, and  who  had  the  tight-mouthed  visage 
and  dominant  voice  of  those  who  habitually  in- 
struct the  young,  said  she  guessed  Miss  Reed 
was  trying  to  put  Mrs.  Seymoui*  off  her  guard ; 


190  HARD-PAN 

it  was  a  case  of  making  a  good  impression  in 
the  beginning. 

The  voice  of  the  little  girl  here  rose  with 
penetrating  suddenness : 

"  She  don't  ever  eat  much.     She  's  too  thin." 

Viola,  suddenly  the  objective  point  of  inter- 
est of  the  table,  felt  herseK  growing  red  and 
embarrassed.  That  she  might  hide  her  face 
from  this  alarming  concentration  of  attention, 
she  pretended  to  drop  her  napkin,  and  bent 
down  to  get  it.  The  landlady,  with  a  tact  that 
her  appearance  belied,  saw  that  the  girl  was 
uncomfortable,  and  diverted  the  conversation. 

It  swelled,  and  was  tossed  back  and  forth 
about  the  table  with  much  laughter  and  jest  of 
a  personal  nature.  There  were  but  six  people 
in  the  house  besides  Mrs.  Seymour,  and  these 
seemed  intimately  conversant  with  one  an- 
other's histories  and  individual  foibles.  The 
school-teacher  was  attacked  about  an  admirer 
known  as  "Little  Willie,"  and  after  a  moment 
of  confusion  she  made  a  spirited  return  on  the 
young  man  beside  her,  whom  every  one  called 
Charley,  but  who  had  been  presented  to  Viola 
as  Mr.  Ryan.  Charley's  infatuation  for  a  lady 
who  had  ridden  a  bicycle  in  a  recent  vaudeville 
performance  seemed  to  be  a  subject  of  gossip, 
and  the  school-teacher  added  further  poignancy 
to  the  tale  by  relating  how  this  lady,  having 
made  an  appointment  to  lunch  with  Charley, 


HARD-PAN  191 

had  failed  to  keep  the  tryst.  The  glee  roused 
over  Charley's  discomfiture  was  loud  and  deep. 
A  heavily  bearded  man  who  sat  at  the  foot  of 
the  table,  and  was  ceremoniously  addressed  as 
Mr.  Betts,  lay  back  in  his  chair  and  roared. 

"  Oh,  Charley !  "  he  gasped,  when  he  had  re- 
covered his  composure,  "  she  got  you  straight 
in  the  slats  that  time." 

His  wife,  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  said 
with  a  prim  air:  "What  I  'd  like  to  know  is 
where  Miss  Mercer  hears  all  these  stories." 

"  Little  birds  tell  them  to  her,"  said  the  child, 
in  her  sudden,  piercing  voice.  "  I  guess  they  're 
trained  birds." 

After  dinner,  when  they  had  gone  up-stairs, 
the  colonel  stopped  with  Viola  at  her  door. 
The  passage  was  dimly  lit  by  a  gas-jet  at  the 
farther  end,  which  was  turned  economically  low. 
From  the  parlor  bursts  of  laughter  ascended. 

"  Well,  good  night,  honey,"  said  the  colonel. 
"  I  'm  sorry  you  're  so  tired."  Then,  somewhat 
uneasily,  "  Do  you  think  you  '11  like  it  here  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  think  so,"  said  Viola. 

The  door  swung  back,  and  the  dark,  stuify 
interior  of  the  room  opened  before  her  like  a 
long-closed  cave.  She  turned  her  cheek  and 
the  colonel  kissed  it. 

"  Do  you  think  you  '11  be  able  to  stand  those 
people?"  he  asked,  in  the  low  tone  of  confi- 
dential criticism. 


192  HARD-PAN 

"  I  dare  say  they  'U  be  very  nice  when  we  get 
to  know  them.  Everybody  's  strange  at  first. 
Good  night,  father." 

She  went  in  and  closed  the  door.  The  aloof- 
ness of  her  manner  had  never  been  more 
marked.  It  seemed  to  place  the  colonel  in  the 
position  of  a  stranger  to  whom  she  preserved  an 
attitude  of  polite  reticence.  Feeling  shrunk 
and  chilled,  he  crept  away  to  his  own  room. 

So  the  new  life  began.  Everything  was  very 
strange,  and  the  weather  was  very  hot.  The 
colonel,  who  had  not  for  fifty  years  known  a 
warmer  climate  than  San  Francisco,  wilted  in 
the  furnace-like  airs  of  the  interior  city.  The 
first  burning  week  exhausted  him  as  a  serious 
illness  might  have  done.  Viola,  who  had  never 
seen  her  father  ill,  was  frightened,  and  sent  for 
a  doctor.  The  doctor  came,  asked  questions, 
and  looked  wise.  He  said  the  colonel's  heart 
was  weak,  and  that  he  seemed  in  a  very  debili- 
tated condition.  A  trip  to  the  seaside  would  do 
him  good ;  cooler  weather  would  brace  him  up. 

When  the  man  had  gone  there  was  a  silence 
between  the  father  and  daughter.  Through 
the  drawn  blinds  the  golden  cracks  of  intrud- 
ing sunshine  cut  the  dimness  that  Viola  had 
made  by  closing  all  the  shutters  in  a  futile  at- 
tempt to  keep  the  room  cool. 

Presently  she  said,  in  a  voice  that  she  tried 
to  make  cheerful : 


HARD-PAN  193 

"  As  soon  as  you  get  stronger  we  will  go  on. 
It  's  too  hot  and  uncomfortable  here  for  any 
one  to  stay." 

"  Go  on  where  I "  the  colonel  asked,  with  the 
light  of  interest  in  his  eyes. 

"  Farther  east.  It  will  be  cool  enough  there. 
We  can  go  to  one  of  those  seaside  places  you 
read  about  in  the  papers— a  cheap  one,  I  mean. 
We  have  plenty  of  money  for  the  trip." 

The  colonel  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair, 
and  finally  twitched  open  one  of  the  shutters. 
The  hot  breath  of  the  garden,  laden  with  heavy 
exotic  scents,  puffed  in  through  the  opening 
like  incense. 

"  Don't  take  me  farther  away,  Viola,"  he  said 
suddenly,  in  a  tone  like  that  of  a  querulous 
child ;  "  don't  take  me  out  of  California." 

"  Do  you  want  to  stay  here  ? "  she  asked. 

"  If  we  can't  go  back,"  he  answered,  looking 
at  her  wistfully. 

"  I  did  n't  think  you  minded,"  she  said ;  "  I 
thought  you  'd  like  the  change." 

There  was  something  of  the  old  gentle  fel- 
lowship in  her  tone,  and  it  made  the  colonel's 
heart  expand.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her, 
and  taking  her  fingers,  rubbed  them  against  his 
cheek. 

"  I  'm  too  old  to  be  transplanted  now." 

She  stood  beside  him,  looking  down,  evi- 
dently troubled. 


194  HARD-PAN 

"  Some  day,  perhaps,"  he  went  on,  watching 
her,  "  we  can  go  back.  They  '11  have  forgotten 
us  there  in  a  few  more  weeks." 

He  saw  her  face  change  at  once,  and  dared 
go  no  further. 

"Yes— some  day,"  she  answered,  and  the 
conversation  ended. 

The  long  summer  burned  itself  on  through 
July  into  August.  Glaring,  golden  mornings 
melted  into  breathless  noons,  which  smoldered 
away  into  fiery  sunsets.  The  leafage  in  the 
garden  hung  motionless,  and  exhaled  strange, 
aromatic  perfumes.  In  the  evenings  the  palms 
stood  black  against  the  rose-red  west  like 
paintings  of  sunset  in  the  desert.  The  city 
they  had  left,  wrapped  in  its  mantle  of  fog,  ap- 
pealed to  the  memories  of  the  exiles  as  a  dim, 
lost  paradise. 

To  the  girl  whose  simple  life  had  passed  in  a 
seclusion  almost  cloistral,  but  at  its  loneliest 
marked  by  refinement,  the  sudden  intimacies, 
the  crude  jovialities,  of  the  boarding-house 
were  violently  repelling.  She  shrank  from 
contact  with  her  fellow-boarders,  touched  by, 
but  unresponsive  to  their  clumsy  overtures  of 
friendship,  alarmed  by  their  ferociously  playful 
personalities.  Fortunately  her  coolness  was  set 
down  as  shyness,  and  she  suffered  from  none 
of  that  rancor  which  the  boarder  who  is  sus- 
pected of  "  putting  on  frills  "  is  liable  to  rouse. 


HARD-PAN  195 

The  long,  idle  days  seemed  interminable  to 
her.  At  first  she  had  found  occupation  in  an 
attempt  to  beautify  the  two  rooms  she  and  her 
father  rented.  Of  hers  she  had  made  a  sitting- 
room,  transforming  the  bed  into  a  divan  cov- 
ered with  a  casing  of  blue  denim  and  a  heap 
of  shaded  blue  cushions.  Under  one  of  the 
balconies  she  discovered  a  quantity  of  forgotten 
flower-pots,  and  in  these  she  had  planted  cut- 
tings of  gay-colored  geraniums,  and  set  them 
along  the  window-sills  and  the  balcony  railing. 
But  the  work  was  soon  completed,  and  a  second 
interval  of  terrifying  vacant  hours  faced  her. 
This  time  she  tried  to  seek  intellectual  diver- 
sion, and  joined  the  free  public  library.  She 
had  often  secretly  deplored  her  own  ignorance ; 
now  was  the  time  to  repair  this  defect;  and 
she  carried  home  many  serious  works,  great 
thoughts  of  great  minds  with  whom  she  had 
never  before  had  an  opportunity  of  becoming 
acquainted. 

But  poor  Viola  was  not  of  the  women  who 
find  in  the  exercise  of  the  brain  a  method 
of  healing  the  hurts  of  a  wounded  heart.  At 
times  a  sense  of  piercing  misery  possessed  her. 
There  were  hours  when  her  loneliness  pressed 
upon  her  like  a  weight,  when  the  sense  of  what 
she  had  lost  was  unbearable  as  a  fierce,  continu- 
ous pain.  Then,  in  the  hope  of  escaping  from 
the  torment  of  "  remembering  happier  things," 


196  HARD-PAN 

she  went  out  and,  in  the  blistering  heat  under 
which  the  streets  lay  sweltering,  walked  aim- 
lessly. If  fatigue  overcame  her  she  sat  down 
on  one  of  the  benches  in  the  little  plazas  that 
dot  the  city,  and  there  a  graceful,  listless  figure 
slipped  back  over  the  intervening  gulf  to  the 
days  when  the  sunshine  had  been  bright  and 
her  own  heart  was  full  of  it. 

Sometimes  rebellion  against  the  fate  which 
had  shut  her  out  from  happiness  rose  within 
her.  A  beloved  companionship,  no  matter  at 
what  cost,  was  better  than  this  waste  of  desola- 
tion. One  life  is  all  of  which  we  are  sure ;  why 
not,  then,  seize  what  we  can  of  that  one  ?  How 
terrible,  in  the  darkness  of  death,  to  realize 
that  we  have  lost  all  that  might  have  made  this 
world  so  rich  and  sweet!  Oh,  the  frightful 
thoughts  of  seeing  at  the  end  that  we  have  re- 
linquished joy  and  love  for  a  dream,  for  nothing ! 
For  the  first  time  in  a  life  singularly  free  from 
event  or  developing  experience,  she  met  that 
dark  second  self  which  dwells  in  each  of  us. 

So  the  tempter  whispered  his  old  words. 
She  closed  her  ears  to  them  with  fear  and  aver- 
sion. But  they  returned,  coming  upon  her 
persuasively  in  moments  of  deadly  depression 
and  disgust  of  life,  coming  upon  her  with  com- 
forting declarations  of  harmlessness,  coming 
upon  her  with  challenging  queries  as  to  their 
wrong. 


HARD-PAN  197 

One  evening  they  were  more  convincing  than 
they  had  ever  been  before.  Sitting  alone  in 
her  own  room  after  dinner,  Viola  listened,  for 
the  first  time  hesitating.  Where  would  be  the 
wrong  in  writing  to  him— just  a  line  to  tell 
him  she  was  sorry  they  had  gone  without  see- 
ing him?  Common  politeness  would  seem  to 
suggest  that  she  ought  to  do  that.  She  would 
have  done  it  before,  only— only—  She  rose 
from  her  seat  and,  going  to  the  window,  looked 
down  into  the  dark  recesses  of  the  garden, 
whence  small  rustling  noises  rose,  then  upward 
to  the  clear  pink  of  the  sunset,  cut  with  black 
palm-spikes.  He,  once  their  best  friend ! 
What  excuse  was  there  for  slighting  a  friend  1 

She  turned  from  the  window  suddenly  and 
went  to  the  table  where  her  writing-materials 
were  kept.  A  sheet  of  note-paper  lay  ready  on 
the  blotter.  It  shone  pink  in  the  sunset  light 
as  she  drew  it  toward  her.  Her  hand  trembled 
a  little  as  she  dipped  the  pen  in  the  ink,  but  was 
firm  when  she  wrote  her  letter.  There  were 
only  a  few  lines,  and  of  the  most  commonplace 
description.  In  the  barest  words  she  accounted 
for  their  sudden  departure,  made  an  apologetic 
allusion  to  their  not  having  acquainted  him 
with  their  intention  of  leaving,  and  ended  with 
the  words,  "  I  hope  we  shall  some  day  see  you 
again."  At  the  end  of  the  letter  she  wrote  the 
address,  and  upon  this  expended  some  care, 


198  HARD-PAN 

forming  the  numbers  with  exactness,  and  in- 
scribing the  name  of  the  street  with  slow  clear- 
ness. She  sealed  the  envelop  with  nervous 
haste,  and  was  rising  from  her  chair  when  the 
colonel  entered. 

"  Been  writing  letters  ? "  he  asked. 

The  question  was  not  an  idle  one,  for  letter- 
writing  was  seldom  practised  in  that  small 
family  circle. 

Instinctively  Viola  placed  her  hand  over  the 
envelop  as  it  lay  on  the  table. 

"Yes,"  she  said  hurriedly,  "just  a  note." 

"  Whom  to  ? "  he  asked.  "  Oh,  I  suppose  your 
friend  at  the  Woman's  Exchange."  This  was 
a  girl  Viola  had  spoken  of  writing  to  anent  the 
relinquishing  of  her  work. 

Viola  made  no  answer.  The  old  man,  who 
was  lighting  the  lamp,  did  not  appear  to  notice 
her  silence. 

"  Letter-writing  's  not  much  in  my  line,"  he 
said  absently,  "  but  your  mother  wrote  beauti- 
ful letters." 

"  Whom  tof"  said  the  girl,  in  her  turn. 

"  Me,  when  we  were  lovers." 

The  lamp  was  lit,  and  he  charily  placed  the 
globe  on  it.  As  he  did  so,  Viola,  from  behind 
him,  leaned  forward  and  applied  the  letter, 
twisted  into  a  spiral,  to  the  chiinney.  It 
smoked,  charred,  and  then  went  up  in  a  flicker 
of  flame. 


HARD-PAN  199 

"  What  are  you  doing  ? "  he  asked,  staring  at 
her  in  surprise. 

"  Burning  my  letter." 

"Why!" 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  because  I  don't  write 
beautiful  ones  like  my  mother." 

Her  voice  trembled,  broke,  and  she  burst  into 
wild  tears.  The  door  into  the  room  beyond 
was  open,  and  she  ran  through  the  aperture 
and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

The  colonel  stood  looking  after  her,  amazed, 
alarmed,  uncomprehending.  In  the  old  days  he 
would  have  followed  her.  Now  he  stood  listen- 
ing at  the  closed  door,  not  daring  even  to 
knock.  When  he  heard  her  sobbing  cease  he 
came  tiptoeing  away  as  though  afraid  of  re- 
awakening her  drowsing  grief.  Standing  by 
the  table,  he  looked  long  and  ruefully  at  the 
lamp-globe. 

"Poor  little  girl!"  he  whispered;  "she  's 
homesick,  too." 

The  old  man's  own  homesickness  was  an  in- 
curable malady.  As  he  had  said  himself,  he 
was  too  old  for  transplanting.  He  could  not 
shake  himself  down  in  the  new  rut.  He  could 
not  get  accustomed  to  the  strange  city  and  its 
unfamiliar  thoroughfares.  Its  alien  aspect 
seemed  to  force  in  upon  him  the  sense  of  his 
insignificance  and  failure.  He  walked  along 
the  streets  and  no  one  knew  him.     There  were 


200  HARD-PAN 

no  cheery  voices  to  cry  out,  "  So  long,  colonel," 
and  wave  a  welcoming  hand  to  a  hat-brim. 
People  jostled  him  to  one  side,  seeing  only  a 
thin,  threadbare  old  man  in  a  faded  coat.  He 
had  no  consciousness  that  they  would  turn  and 
look  at  him,  and  point  him  out  to  the  stranger 
from  the  East  whom  they  were  "  taking  round." 
He  was  no  more  to  Sacramento  than  it  was  to 
him.  He  grew  so  to  dread  the  feeling  of  op- 
pressive melancholy  that  fell  upon  him  in  its 
unfriendly  streets  that  he  gave  up  going  out, 
and  spent  most  of  his  time  in  the  garden  or  in 
Viola's  room. 

When  with  her  he  tried  to  be  bright  and  to 
make  the  best  of  the  situation.  He  saw  in  her 
changed  attitude  nothing  but  blame  of  him, 
and  he  would  have  borne  anything  uncomplain- 
ingly to  win  back  the  love  he  thought  she  with- 
held. That  another  and  a  deeper  feeling  could 
be  causing  her  heaviness  of  spirit  he  did  not 
dream.  Like  many  another  man,  he  had  no 
instinct  to  see  into  the  hidden  inner  life  of  the 
child  that  was  bone  of  his  bone  and  flesh  of  his 
flesh. 

He  hardly  ever  let  his  thoughts  revert  to  the 
cause  that  had  made  her  take  her  hasty  step. 
He  knew  he  had  been  to  blame,  and  the  colonel 
was  a  man  who  always  forgot  his  own  mistakes. 
In  the  course  of  time  they  ceased  to  be  mis- 
takes, and,  in  his  eyes,  assumed  the  proportions 


HARD-PAN  201 

of  worthy  attempts  that  an  unjust  fate  had 
frustrated.  Just  what  he  had  meant  by  using 
his  daughter's  name  in  his  intercourse  with 
Gault  he  himself  hardly  knew— nothing  to  her 
actual  detriment,  that  was  certain.  If  any  one 
had  breathed  a  word  of  blame  against  her,  or 
tried  to  harm  one  hair  of  her  head,  he  would 
have  been  quick  to  rise  in  her  defense,  wrathful 
as  a  tiger.  The  wrongs  that  do  not  come  directly 
back,  like  boomerangs,  were  wrongs  the  respon- 
sibility of  which  the  colonel  readily  shifted  from 
his  shoulders.  He  had  wanted  money  for  Viola, 
and  he  used  the  readiest  means  to  his  hand  to 
get  it.  The  jingling  of  gold  in  his  pocket,  the 
gladness  of  her  face  when  he  brought  her  some 
trifling  gift,  made  everything  outside  the  plea- 
sure of  the  moment  count  for  naught. 

And  now  they  were  estranged.  A  veil  of  in- 
dissoluble coldness  separated  them.  Yet  she 
was  never  curt  or  sharp  or  cross  to  him. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  the 
same  in  word  and  voice  and  manner  as  she  had 
always  been,  only  something  had  gone  from 
her— light,  cheer,  gaiety,  some  inexpressible, 
loving,  lovely  thing  that  had  made  her  the  star 
of  his  life.  Once,  taking  his  courage  in  both 
hands,  he  had  asked  her  if  she  was  angry  with 
him,  and  then  shrank  like  a  whipped  dog  be- 
fore the  startled  negation  of  her  eyes  and  her 
quick  "  Why,  no,  father !     How  could  I  be  ? " 


202  HARD-PAN 

The  one  diversion  of  the  colonel's  life  was 
the  society  of  his  fellow-boarders.  Though  he 
abused  them  roundly  up-stairs  to  Viola,  he  took 
undoubted  satisfaction  in  regaling  them  with 
the  stories  of  his  past  greatness.  Night  after 
night  he  bestrode  his  hobby,  and  entertained 
an  admiring  circle  with  its  evolutions.  It  was 
many  years  since  he  had  had  so  large  and  so  at- 
tentive an  audience,  and  he  profited  by  the  oc- 
casion, giving  even  more  remarkable  accounts 
of  the  men  he  had  made  than  those  with  which 
he  had  once  amused  John  Gault. 

For  some  time  his  listeners  awarded  him  a 
half-credulous  attention ;  but  soon  their  interest 
in  the  garrulous  old  man  died  away.  Miss 
Mercer  expressed  the  opinion  that  the  colonel 
was  "no  better  than  an  old,  worn-out  fake,"  a 
sentiment  which  found  an  echo  in  the  breasts 
of  every  other  inmate  of  the  house— even  Mrs. 
Seymour  quietly,  in  her  own  mind,  relegating 
him  to  the  ranks  of  harmless  frauds.  The  tradi- 
tions of  San  Francisco  were  not  known  of  all 
men  in  Sacramento.  The  colonel  found  that  he 
was  singing  the  songs  of  Zion  in  a  strange  land. 
No  one  believed  him.  When  he  spoke  of  his 
friendship  with  Adolphus  Maroney,  and  how 
thirty  years  before  he  had  laid  the  foundation 
of  Jerry  McCormick's  fortune,  the  listeners 
made  little  attempt  to  hide  their  disbelief,  and 
Mr.  Betts  and  Charley  Kyan  took  much  delight 


HARD-PAN  203 

in  openly  "joshing  the  old  man."  Bart  Nelson 
did  not  indulge  in  this  pastime,  as  he  had  con- 
ceived a  violent,  if  secret,  regard  for  Viola. 

One  evening  after  dinner  the  "joshing" 
reached  a  climax  against  which  even  the 
colonel's  egotistical  infatuation  was  not  proof, 
Viola  was  up-stairs,  according  to  her  custom; 
Mrs.  Seymour  was  absent  on  her  never-ending 
household  duties;  and  Bart  Nelson  was  out. 
There  was  no  one  to  restrain  the  old  man's 
foolish  flights,  and  inspired  by  the  ironically 
flattering  queries  of  his  listeners,  his  reminis- 
cences became  more  vaingloriously  brilliant 
than  they  had  ever  been  before. 

His  completion  of  an  elaborate  account  of 
his  patronage  of  Adolphus  Maroney  called 
forth  from  Mr.  Betts  the  remark : 

"  I  don't  see,  colonel,  how  he  can  get  on  at 
all  without  you.  Once  you  got  from  under 
him,  it 's  a  miracle  he  did  n't  entirely  collapse." 

"No,  not  quite  that,"  the  colonel  modestly 
deprecated.  "  Maroney  was  no  fool— no  fool ; 
only  speculative  and  lacking  in  foresight.  When 
I  got  him  on  his  feet  he  was  able  to  go  his  way 
alone." 

"Well,  that  was  smart  of  him,  was  n't  it?" 
commented  Charley  Ryan,  with  a  sagacious  wag 
of  his  head. 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  his  re- 
mark that  disturbed  the  colonel's  complacency. 


204  HARD-PAN 

For  a  moment  he  eyed  Charley  with  a  side 
glance,  then  he  said : 

"  I  'm  always  willing  to  admit  that  Maroney 
was  no  fool." 

"Now,  how  do  we  know,"  said  Miss  Mercer, 
letting  her  eyes  give  a  preliminary  sweei?  over 
the  faces  about  her,  "that  you  're  not  still 
doing  all  the  work  and  making  all  the  money 
for  those  San  Francisco  millionaires  ?  You 
know,  I  believe  that 's  just  what  you  're  up  to, 
and  you  're  too  sly  to  tell." 

She  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  bright  chal- 
lenge.   The  colonel  was  pleased. 

"No,  my  dear  young  lady,"  he  answered; 
"  that  was  in  the  past,  when  I  was  one  of  them 
myself." 

"  Are  you  sure  you  are  not  one  of  them  still  ? " 
said  Charley  Ryan.  "Come,  now,  colonel; 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  Here  's  the  family 
album ;  can  you  swear  upon  this  book  that  you 
have  n't  got  a  few  loose  millions  lying  round 
in  tea-pots  and  stockings  up  in  your  room  ? " 

The  coloilel  flushed.  He  did  not  mind  allud- 
ing to  his  poverty  himself,  but  he  resented  hav- 
ing others  treat  it  as  a  jest. 

"  I  can  swear  without  family  albums  that  the 
fortune  I  once  had  is  a  thing  of  the  past,"  he 
answered,  "  and  I  rather  fancy  that  you  know 
all  about  its  magnitude  and  its  loss.  Most 
people  do." 


HARD-PAN  205 

This  was  too  much.  Mr.  Betts,  who  was 
afflicted  by  an  irrepressible  sense  of  humor, 
burst  into  loud  laughter. 

"Well,  colonel,"  he  said,  "now  that  you  re- 
mind me,  I  believe  I  have  heard  that  there  was 
a  hitch  about  your  millions.  So  there  is  about 
mine.  Yours  are  gone,  and  mine  ain't  come. 
Brothers  in  misfortune !     Shake  on  that !  " 

He  held  out  a  large  fist,  and  the  colonel,  not 
quite  comprehending,  but  feeling  the  derision 
about  him  in  an  inward  sense  of  heated  dis- 
comfort, put  his  hand  in  it.  Mr.  Betts  gave  it 
a  vigorous  clasp,  and  holding  it  aloft,  said : 

"The  Corsican  Brothers!— as  they  appeared 
at  that  fatal  moment  when  one  had  just  lost 
and  the  other  not  yet  found  his  pile." 

There  was  a  shout  of  laughter,  and  the  old 
man  drew  his  hand  away.  His  face  was  deeply 
flushed,  and  a  feeling  of  tremulous  indignation 
was  rising  in  him. 

"Don't  despond,  colonel,"  said  Miss  Mercer, 
cheerily.  "  Lots  of  men  have  made  two  fortunes. 
There  's  a  chance  for  you  yet." 

"I  guess  there  's  about  as  much  chance  for 
him,"  said  Mrs.  Betts,  who  was  an  acidulous 
lady  of  a  practical  turn,  "  as  there  is  for  Mr. 
Betts.  I  'm  sorter  tired  of  this  talk  of  making 
millions,  and  then  never  having  an  extra  dollar." 

"  Stick  close  to  the  colonel,  Mrs.  Betts,"  said 
Charley  Ryan,  "and  you  'U  have  your  extra 


206  HARD-PAN 

dollar.  He  '11  make  it  for  you  same  way  as  he 
did  for  Jerry  McCormick." 

"Now,  colonel,"  said  Mr.  Betts,  "there  's  a 
chance  for  you.  Here  's  Mrs.  Betts  wants  an 
extra  dollar,  and  here  are  you,  just  the  man 
to  make  it  for  her.  No  gentleman  can  resist 
the  appeal  of  a  female  in  distress.  Send  my 
henchman  for  ink  and  paper."  He  drew  a  stub 
of  pencil  from  his  pocket  and  began  writing  on 
the  back  of  an  envelop,  reading  as  he  wrote : 
"Colonel  Eeed,  the  multi-millionaire,  will  be- 
fore the  present  witnesses  sign  a  contract  to 
make  for  the  hereinbefore-mentioned  Mary 
Louise  Betts  the  sum  of  one  dollar,  the  same 
payable  on—" 

He  paused  with  raised  pencil. 

"  What  date  did  you  say  ? " 

The  colonel  rose.  He  was  pale  and  almost 
gasping  with  anger.  He  had  at  last  realized 
that  these  barbarians  were  making  sport  of  him. 

"I  did  not  state  any  date,"  he  said  slowly; 
"  nor  did  I— that  I  can  remember — say  that  I 
would  make  any  specified  sum  of  money  for 
any  one  here.  But  since  you  seem  to  insist  that 
I  did  so,  I  will  fulfil  my  obligations  without 
any  more  unnecessarj^  talk.     Here  is  the  dollar." 

He  drew  a  dollar  from  his  pocket  and  flung 
it  on  the  table  with  the  gesture  of  one  throwing 
a  bone  to  a  dog. 

"  Ladies,"  he  said,  bowing  deeply  to  the  two 


HARD-PAN  207 

women,  "  I  have  the  honor  to  wish  you  good 
evening." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  after  his 
withdrawal,  during  which  they  all  sat  staring 
rather  fooHshly  at  the  dollar.  But  if  he  had 
thought  to  humiliate  them,  he  had  mistaken 
his  audience. 

"  There,  now !  "  was  the  opening  remark,  con- 
tributed by  Mrs.  Betts;  "you  've  gone  and 
rubbed  him  up  the  wrong  way.  And  I  don't 
see  what  satisfaction  you  get  from  it." 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Betts,  "I  '11  get  the  dollar, 
anyway." 

He  made  a  playfully  frenzied  lunge  for  the 
coin.  But  Charley  Ryan  had  anticipated  the 
movement,  and  his  hand  struck  it  first.  An 
animated  tussle  ensued,  during  which  Miss 
Mercer  averted  a  catastrophe  by  removing  the 
lamp. 

"  Lord !  Lord !  "  cried  Mrs.  Betts,  queru- 
lously, "  what  under  the  canopy  possesses  them  ? 
It 's  like  living  in  a  bear-garden." 

The  struggle  ended  with  the  triumph  of 
Charley  Ryan,  who,  with  an  exaggerated  bow 
and  an  affectation  of  the  colonel's  manner, 
presented  his  trophy  to  Mrs.  Betts.  She  took 
it,  threw  it  into  her  work-basket,  and  said 
snappishly: 

"  The  old  man  gets  that  to-morrow.  I  ain't 
goin'  into  the  hold-up  business." 


208  HARD-PAN 

After  this  the  colonel's  attitude  toward  his 
fellow-boarders  was  of  the  stiffest  and  most  re- 
pelling sort.  They  were  a  good  deal  surprised 
at  it  at  first ;  then,  as  days  passed  and  it  did  not 
soften,  they  came  to  regard  it  as  a  joke,  and 
though  by  tacit  consent  he  was  let  alone,  they 
seemed  to  harbor  no  ill  feeling  toward  him.  He, 
on  his  side,  was  filled  with  unappeasable  rage. 
He  often  passed  a  meal  without  speaking  to  one 
of  them,  and  never  again  spent  an  evening  in 
the  parlor. 

Up-stairs  he  abused  them  to  Viola  with  a 
violence  of  phrase  that  would  have  amazed 
them.  Even  to  Mrs.  Seymour  he  permitted 
himself  to  indulge  his  wrath  to  the  extent  of 
biting  sarcasms  at  their  expense.  The  land- 
lady soothed  him  by  assuring  him  that  they 
were  of  an  inferior  class  to  himself.  This  was 
some  consolation  to  the  colonel,  but  he  avoided 
their  society  with  a  hauteur  which  was  quite 
thrown  away  on  them,  and  his  life  became  lone- 
lier and  more  purposeless  than  ever. 

Cut  off  still  further  from  his  fellows,  longing 
for,  yet  afraid  to  court,  the  society  of  his 
daughter,  the  old  man  found  himself  in  a  posi- 
tion of  distressing  isolation.  In  his  dreariness 
he  turned  for  amusement  and  solace  to  the  one 
person  left  in  the  house  who  had  neither  the 
self-consciousness  to  bore,  the  experience  to 
judge  by,  nor  the  cruelty  to  mock.    This  was 


HARD-PAN  209 

Corinne,  Mrs.  Seymour's  little  girl,  a  grave, 
large- eyed,  lean-shanked  child  of  eight. 

The  alternate  spoiling  and  scolding  that  the 
boarders  awarded  her  had  developed  in  Corinne 
a  chill  disbelief  in  human  nature.  As  a  rule 
she  held  off  from  those  about  her  who  would 
one  day  buy  her  kisses  with  a  bag  of  candy, 
and  the  next,  when  she  was  singing  to  her 
doll  on  the  balcony,  would  box  her  ears  for 
making  a  noise.  The  vagaries  of  humanity 
were  a  mystery  to  her,  and  she  had  already  ac- 
quired a  cautious  philosophy,  the  main  tenet  of 
which  was  to  go  her  own  way  without  demand 
or  appeal  to  her  fellow-creatures. 

Corinne,  if  not  as  experienced  as  her  mother, 
was  possessed  of  those  intuitive  faculties  which 
distinguish  many  neglected  children.  She 
knew  after  the  first  week  that  neither  the  colo- 
nel nor  Viola  would  blow  hot  and  cold  upon 
her  little  moods.  Still,  there  was  a  prudent 
reticence  in  her  acceptance  of  their  overtures, 
and  she  took  the  colonel's  first  gifts  of  fruit 
and  candy  with  a  wary  apprehension  of  the  next 
day's  rebuffs.  But  they  never  came,  and  the 
prematurely  grave  child  and  the  lonely  old 
man  established  friendly  relations,  grateful  and 
warming  to  both.  Finally,  when  the  other 
boarders  drove  the  colonel  back  into  the  cita- 
del of  his  wounded  pride,  the  tie  between  them 
was  strengthened.     Each  felt  the  isolation  of 


210  HARD-PAN 

the  other  as  a  secret  bond  of  sympathy  and 
understanding. 

The  colonel,  sore,  homesick,  repulsed  on 
every  side,  turned  to  the  child  with  a  pitiful 
eagerness,  and  lavished  upon  her  the  discarded 
affections  of  his  hungry  heart.  He  greeted  her 
entrance  into  Viola's  sitting-room — a  noiseless 
entrance,  hugging  up  to  her  breast  her  doll  and 
her  pet  black  kitten— with  expressions  of  joy 
that  to  an  outsider  would  have  seemed  laugh- 
ably extravagant.  But  they  were  not,  for  she 
had  come  to  represent  to  him  tenderness,  toler- 
ance, appreciation.  He  felt  at  ease  and  con- 
tented with  her,  for  he  knew  that  she  would 
not  criticize  him,  would  never  find  fault  with 
him.  She  flattered  and  sustained  the  last  rem- 
nant of  his  once  buoyant  vanity.  He  was  not 
afraid  that  her  eyes  would  meet  his  with  a  sad 
reproach.  On  the  contrary,  their  absorbed  un- 
consciousness was  one  of  the  most  soothing  and 
delightful  things  about  her.  Corinne  would 
not  have  cared  what  he  did.  She  liked  him  for 
himself,  and  accepted  him  unmurmuringly  as 
he  was. 

It  was  holiday-time,  and  she  spent  many 
afternoons  in  the  colonel's  society,  generally 
squatted  on  the  floor  in  Viola's  sitting-room. 
She  spoke  little,  but  had  the  appearance  of  lis- 
tening to  all  the  old  man  said,  and  at  times 
made  solemnly  sagacious  comments.    He,  on  his 


HARD-PAN  211 

part,  talked  to  her  as  if  slie  had  been  a  woman, 
expatiating  to  her  on  the  strange  capricious- 
ness  of  affection  that  marked  her  sex.  Once  or 
twice  he  alluded  sadly  to  the  apparent  estrange- 
ment between  himself  and  his  daughter. 

"  Seems  almost  as  if  she  did  n't  like  me,  Co- 
rinne ;  does  n't  it ! "  he  asked  anxiously,  watch- 
ing the  child,  who  was  trying  to  put  her  doll's 
skirt  on  the  kitten. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  Corinne  responded 
gravely,  holding  the  cat  on  its  hind  legs  while 
she  shook  down  the  skirt ;  "  I  think  she  likes 
you  a  lot." 

"  What  makes  you  think  that  ?  She  does  n't 
ever  talk  to  me  much,  or  tell  me  things,  the 
way  she  used." 

"  She  does  n't  talk  to  anybody  much,"  said 
Corinne.  "  Mr.  Nelson  said  she  was  the  most 
awful  quiet  girl  he  ever  knew."  Here  the  cat 
gave  a  long,  protesting  mew,  and  Corinne's  at- 
tention became  concentrated  on  its  toilet. 

"  She  use  n't  to  be  quiet  like  that.  She  was 
the  brightest  girl!  You  ought  to  have  seen 
her,  Corinne— just  like  a  picture,  and  always 
laughing." 

"  She  don't  laugh  much  now,"  said  Corinne ; 
"  I  don't  think  I  ever  heard  her  laugh— not  once. 
Keep  quiet  now,  deary  "— coaxingly  to  the  cat ; 
"  you  're  nearly  dressed." 

"  And  all  because  I  only  tried  to  please  her. 


212  HARD-PAN 

I  just  tried  to  do  my  best  to  make  her  happy. 
There  's  no  good  trying  to  please  a  woman. 
You  're  all  the  same.  Be  kind  to  them,  be  lov- 
ing, break  your  heart  trying  to  give  them 
pleasure— and  that 's  the  way  it  is." 

"  "What  's  the  way  it  is  ? "  asked  Corinne,  sit- 
ting up  on  her  heels  and  feeling  over  her  person 
for  a  pin  to  fasten  the  waistband  of  the  skirt. 

"  The  way  it  is  now  with  me  and  Viola— cold- 
ness, indifference,  maybe  dislike."  Then,  half 
to  himself :  "  There  's  no  understanding  women. 
What  were  they  made  for,  anyway  ?  " 

Corinne  seemed  to  think  this  remark  worthy 
of  attention.  Her  search  for  the  pin  was  ar- 
rested and  she  pondered  for  a  moment.  Then 
she  looked  at  the  colonel  and  said  tentatively, 
not  quite  sure  of  the  reasonableness  of  her 
reply : 

"  I  suppose  so  that  people  can  have  mothers, 
colonel." 

"  So  that  people  can  have  love,  Corinne,"  he 
answered  sadly. 

Corinne,  feeling  that  her  solution  of  the 
problem  had  not  been  the  right  one,  retm-ned 
to  the  pin.  She  found  it,  and  bending  over 
the  patient  kitten,  inserted  it  carefully  into  the 
band.  But  her  calculations  were  not  true,  the 
pin  pricked,  and  the  cat,  with  an  angry  mew, 
broke  away  and  went  scuttling  across  the  room 
inclosed  in  the  skirt.     Her  appearance  was  so 


HARD-PAN  213 

funny  that  Corinne  sat  back  on  her  heels  and, 
punching  the  colonel's  knee,  cried  in  a  burst  of 
laughter : 

"Oh,  look,  colonel,  look!  Ain't  she  cun- 
ning ? " 

The  colonel  looked.  The  cat  turned,  still 
in  the  skirt,  and  eyed  them  both  with  a  look 
of  hurt  protest.  It  appealed  to  the  colonel's 
humor  as  it  had  to  Corinne's.  Their  combined 
laughter  filled  the  room  and  greeted  Viola  as 
she  came  up  the  passage  from  one  of  her  long 
walks. 

"  What  are  you  laughing  at  ? "  she  asked,  as 
she  opened  the  door  and  entered  like  a  pale 
vision  wilted  with  the  heat  and  light  outside. 

The  colonel's  laughter  died  away  immedi- 
ately. Her  listless  air  of  delicacy  struck  him 
anew  with  the  silent  reproach  which  her  mere 
presence  now  seemed  to  suggest.  All  amuse- 
ment faded  from  his  face,  and  he  looked  guiltily 
conscious,  like  a  child  found  in  mischief. 

A  short  time  after  this  a  hot  spell  struck  the 
city.  Though  it  was  September,  the  heat  was 
stifling.  For  three  days  the  mercury  stood  so 
high  that  even  Corinne's  engrossingly  arduous 
play  with  the  doll  and  the  kitten  was  listlessly 
performed,  and  she  spent  most  of  her  time  in 
the  sitting-room  with  Viola  and  the  colonel, 
where,  behind  closed  shutters,  they  gasped 
away  the  hours.     The  old  man  seemed  to  feel 


214  HARD-PAN 

the  heat  less  than  before ;  at  least,  he  said  little 
about  it,  and  occupied  himself  in  teaching  Co- 
rinne  to  play  solitaire,  a  game  for  which  she 
evinced  a  precocious  aptitude.  Viola,  sitting 
by  the  window,  where  now  and  then  a  fine  edge 
of  warm  air  sifted  in  between  the  slats  in  the 
shutters,  watched  them.  Her  father  seemed  as 
much  interested  as  the  child,  and  the  girl  won- 
dered how  in  this  oppressive  exile  he  could 
have  spirit  for  so  trivial  an  amusement. 

After  three  days  the  heat  broke,  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  soothing,  balmy  coolness,  under 
the  influence  of  which  the  city  seemed  to  relax 
and  rest  inert  in  the  torpor  of  recuperation. 
The  freshened  airs  that  flowed  through  the 
overheated  old  house  extracted  every  odor  left 
from  years  of  bad  cooking  and  insufficient  ven- 
tilation. The  musty  hangings  of  the  rooms 
closed  in  and  held  the  oven-like  atmosphere. 
Dusty  curtains  and  grease-stained  carpets 
added  their  contributions  to  the  closeness  left 
by  years  of  untidy  occupancy. 

Viola  had  spent  the  morning  in  the  garden, 
sitting  under  the  great  fig-tree,  sewing.  The 
house  was  unbearable  to  her,  and  she  wondered 
why  her  father  had  chosen  to  remain  there, 
working  methodically  over  an  old  solitaire  he 
was  trying  to  recall.  Late  in  the  afternoon, 
her  work  done,  she  resolved  to  go  out  for  a 
walk.     Entering  the  sitting-room  with  her  hat 


HARD-PAN  215 

and  gloves  in  her  hand,  she  found  the  colonel 
still  sitting  at  the  table,  upon  which  the  cards 
were  arranged  in  twelve  neat  piles.  He  had 
mastered  the  solitaire,  and  now  refused  to  ac- 
company her  on  the  ground  that  he  had  an 
engagement  to  teach  it  to  Corinne,  who  had 
that  day  gone  to  school  for  the  first  time.  He 
seemed  to  be  looking  forward  to  the  few  hours 
of  the  child's  society  that  the  afternoon  would 
give  him,  and  had  set  forth  on  a  corner  of 
the  table  a  little  feast  of  cookies  and  fruit  with 
which  to  regale  her  when  the  solitaire  became 
irksome.  Viola  was  not  sorry  that  he  would 
not  come.  She  liked  being  alone,  with  nothing 
to  interrupt  the  aimless  flow  of  her  thoughts. 

The  air  was  clear,  fresh,  and  fine.  The  lan- 
guor of  the  warm  weather  was  gone,  and  the 
girl,  as  she  fared  toward  one  of  the  little  plazas 
which  at  intervals  interrupt  the  passage  of  the 
long  streets,  felt  the  promise  of  autumn.  Sit- 
ting on  a  bench  in  the  plaza,  she  looked  out 
over  the  city,  and  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
sparkle  of  the  river  at  the  end  of  an  open  vista, 
and,  cutting  into  the  thin  pink  of  the  sunset 
sky,  roof  beyond  roof  and  chimney  over  chim- 
ney. The  golden  dreaminess  of  summer  was 
over,  with  its  brooding,  purposeless  inaction. 
The  haze  of  churned-up  yellow  dust,  was  dis- 
persed by  a  breath  that  held  a  prophecy  of 
coming  cold,  sharp  and  imperious.     There  was 


216  HARD-PAN 

a  stir  iu  the  air,  a  promise  in  the  flaring  sky. 
Its  light  fell  on  Viola's  face,  and  seemed  to  sud- 
denly send  a  shaft  into  her  deadened  heart. 
She  moved  and  looked  up,  almost  as  if  some 
one  had  spoken  to  her.  On  the  pallor  of  her 
lifted  face  the  reflected  glow  shone  like  gilding. 

The  dead  lethargy  that  had  held  her  all  sum- 
mer seemed  to  be  breaking.  As  she  sat  staring 
at  the  illuminated  sky,  her  mind  sprang  back 
like  a  mended  spring,  past  all  the  despair  and 
struggle  of  the  past  three  months  to  the  life 
behind  it,  and  then  forward  to  the  future.  A 
rousing  of  energy,  a  sense  of  work  to  do,  a  re- 
turn of  force  and  will,  ran  through  her  in  a 
brisk,  revivifying  current.  The  checked  stream 
of  her  life  seemed  to  burst  the  barrier  that  had 
held  it  and  to  move  onward  again. 

There  was  work  for  every  one,  and  work  was 
the  purpose  of  existence.  She  had  claimed 
happiness  as  a  right,  demanded  what  is  not  to 
be ;  then,  when  the  inexorable  ruling  will  had 
interposed,  had  dropped  from  the  ranks  in  the 
passion  of  a  thwarted  child.  The  glory  and 
the  dream— who  realized  them?  Who  of  the 
millions  about  her  had  touched  the  happiness 
she  had  expected  to  seize  and  hold?  Why 
should  she  be  exempt  from  the  grinding  that 
forces  the  grain  from  the  chaff?  All  yearned, 
aspired,  dreamed,  and  yet,  never  achieving, 
lived  on,  learning  their  lesson  of  obedience. 


HARD-PAN  217 

Only  some  bowed  their  necks  to  the  yoke  more 
quickly  than  others. 

There  was  a  second  plane  of  life— a  plane  to 
which  some  were  rudely  hurled  and  some  crept 
by  degrees.  Here  you  went  sternly  on,  and  did 
the  work  before  you  for  its  own  sake,  not  for 
yours.  And  thus,  in  time,  self  might  be  con- 
quered and  its  insistent  cry  for  recognition  be 
stifled.  There  was  a  corner  in  the  world  for 
every  one,  where  they  took  their  broken  idols 
and  set  them  up,  and  some  day  would  look  at 
them  and  smile  over  the  anguish  there  had 
been  when  they  fell. 

The  sunset  deepened  to  a  fine,  transparent 
red,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been  clarified  of 
all  denser  matter.  It  gave  a  flush  to  Viola's 
upward-looking  face.  Her  thoughts  turned 
from  the  vague  lines  they  had  been  following  to 
closer  personal  ones.  The  love  for  her  father, 
that  had  seemed  frozen,  gushed  up  in  her  heart. 
His  face,  with  its  wistful  glance,  came  before 
her ;  a  hundred  instances  of  her  past  coldness 
rose  in  accusing  memory.  There  was  some- 
thing better  yet  than  work.  Love— that  was 
the  axis  of  the  world ;  that  made  life  possible, 
and  the  sacrifice  of  self  full  of  use  and  meaning ; 
that  was  the  key-note  of  the  whole  structure  of 
existence. 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  rapidly,  with  her 
old  firm  alertness  of  step,  moved  out  through 


218  HARD-PAN 

the  plaza.  She  wanted  to  run,  to  find  the  old 
man  and,  taking  his  head  in  her  arms,  whisper 
her  contrition.  Through  street  after  street  her 
swift  footfall  woke  sharp,  decisive  echoes.  Her 
face  had  lost  its  look  of  dejection  and  was  set 
in  lines  of  firmness  and  resolution.  People,  as 
she  passed,  turned  to  look  at  her— at  the  young 
face  so  full  of  a  steady  purpose,  at  the  eyes 
deep  with  a  woman's  aspirations.  Her  thoughts 
flew  forward,  high-strung,  exalted,  beating 
against  the  confining  limits  of  time  and  space. 
She  would  take  him  back  to  San  Francisco. 
They  would  go  together.  How  had  she  had 
the  heart  to  hurt  him  so !  Now,  all  blindness 
swept  away  by  the  breaking  down  of  her  ego- 
tism, she  knew  what  he  had  suffered. 

It  was  almost  dark  when  she  reached  the 
house,  and  as  she  went  up  the  path  from  the 
gate  she  saw  lights  springing  out  here  and 
there  in  the  upper  windows.  In  the  passage 
to  her  own  room  she  came  upon  Mrs.  Seymour 
lighting  the  gas,  her  back  toward  the  stair- 
head. The  elder  woman,  hearing  the  girl's 
light  step,  turned  with  the  match  in  her  hand. 
Viola,  still  engrossed  in  her  own  thoughts,  me- 
chanically smiled  a  greeting.  Mrs.  Seymour's 
face,  with  the  crude  gaslight  falling  on  it,  was 
unresponsively  grave. 

"  I  'm  glad  that  's  you,"  she  said ;  "  I  've  had 
a  sort  of  scare  about  your  father." 


HARD-PAN  219 

"  Scare  !  "  exclaimed  Viola,  stopping  with  a 
start.     "  What  do  you  mean  ? " 

"Nothing  for  you  to  get  frightened  about. 
It 's  all  over  now.  He  had  a  sort  of  a  sinking 
spell,  that  was  all,  when  he  was  playing  them 
cards  with  Corinne.  She  come  out  and  hol- 
lered for  me,  and  I  come  up  and  found  him 
looking  white  and  kind  o'  queerish.  He  said 
he  'd  only  lost  his  breath.  I  gave  him  some 
brandy,  and  it  seemed  to  pull  him  together  all 
right.  But  I  did  n't,  some  way  or  other,  like  his 
looks.    I  sorter  wished  you  was  here." 

Viola  looked  relieved. 

"Oh,  he  's  had  that  several  times  before. 
It  's  his  heart,  the  doctor  said;  but  he  did  n't 
seem  to  think  it  was  anything  serious.  You 
frightened  me." 

Mrs.  Seymour  walked  down  the  hall  to  the 
gas-jet  by  the  stair-head. 

"  You  don't  want  to  get  frightened,"  she  said 
over  her  shoulder;  "but  I  don't  think  you 
know  much  about  sickness,  and,  if  I  was  you, 
I  'd  get  the  doctor  to-morrow." 

"I  '11  do  that  anyway,"  said  Viola,  as  she 
opened  the  door  of  the  colonel's  room. 

The  picture  that  she  entered  upon  was  reas- 
suring. The  lamp  was  lighted  under  its  opaque 
yellow  shade,  and  cast  its  chastened  light  over 
the  center  of  the  room.  Here  Corinne  lay  on 
the  floor,  the  pack  of  cards  spread  out  before 


220  HARD-PAN 

her.  In  the  intensity  of  her  absorption  she 
kicked  gently  on  the  floor  with  her  toes,  mak- 
ing a  soft  but  regular  tattoo.  Near  by  sat  the 
kitten,  its  tail  curled  neatly  round  its  front  feet, 
ink-black  save  for  the  transparent  yellow-green 
of  its  large  watching  eyes.  The  colonel  leaned 
over  the  arm  of  his  chair,  following  the  game  as 
intently  as  the  child.  He  was  laughing  when 
Viola  came  in,  and  pointing  with  a  long  fore- 
finger at  a  possible  move  that  Corinne  had  not 
seen.  Both  were  so  interested  in  their  play 
that  they  did  not  heed  the  opening  of  the  door. 
Viola  stood  in  the  aperture,  regarding  them 
with  pleasure  and  relief.  A  slight  smell  of 
brandy  in  the  air  was  the  only  indication  that 
there  had  been  sickness  here  a  short  time 
before. 

At  the  sound  of  the  closing  of  the  door  they 
both  looked  up.  Over  the  colonel's  visage  the 
same  childishly  embarrassed  expression  flitted 
that  Viola  had  noticed  a  few  days  before. 
Corinne,  on  the  contrary,  merely  gave  the  new- 
comer the  short  side  look  of  begrudged  atten- 
tion, and  returned  to  the  cards,  murmuring, 
"  It 's  only  Viola." 

The  girl  went  across  to  her  father,  and  tak- 
ing his  hand,  curled  her  soft  fingers  around  it 
in  a  warm,  infolding  clasp. 

"  Mrs.  Seymour  says  you  have  n't  been  well," 
she  said. 


HARD-PAN  221 

The  unexpected  caress  made  the  old  man  for- 
get the  game,  and  his  face  flushed  with  plea- 
sure. He  leaned  toward  her  with  the  content 
of  a  forgiven  child. 

"  It  was  nothing— just  a  little  turn  like  I  had 
the  other  day.  First  a  pain,  and  then  something 
comes  fluttering  up  near  your  throat.  The  heat 
knocked  me  out.     But  it  scared  Corinne." 

"He  got  the  color  of  the  pitcher,"  said  Co- 
rinne, not  moving  her  eyes  from  the  cards,  but 
sparing  enough  time  to  give  a  jerk  of  her  head 
in  the  direction  of  a  white  china  water-pitcher 
on  the  table. 

"  You  ought  to  have  seen  Corinne.  She  went 
out  in  the  passage  and  made  a  noise  as  if  there 
was  a  fire." 

"I  was  scairt,"  said  Corinne,  "and  hollered 
for  mommer.  I  don't  want  you  to  scare  me 
that  way  again,  colonel." 

The  colonel  and  Viola  laughed. 

"  I  '11  try  and  not  have  it  happen  again,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  You  know,  I  always  do  what 
you  tell  me." 

"Mostly  always,"  Corinne  absently  agreed. 
"  I  'm  going  to  put  this  ten-spot  here.  Look, 
colonel,  is  n't  that  the  best  move  ? " 

The  old  man  leaned  forward,  studying  the 
contemplated  move.  Viola  drew  back,  watching 
him.  She  had  noticed  his  pallor  when  she  came 
in.    Now  his  face,  settled  into  lines  of  gravity. 


222  HARD-PAN 

appeared  to  have  suddenly  collapsed  and  with- 
ered into  the  gray  hollows  of  decrepitude.  Her 
heart  contracted  at  the  sight.  She  turned  away, 
under  the  pretense  of  pulling  off  her  gloves,  and 
said: 

"I  made  a  plan  when  I  was  out  this  after- 
noon.    I  think  you  '11  like  it." 

"  Let  's  hear  it,"  he  said,  turning  back  from 
the  cards  and  watching  her  with  a  fond  half- 
smile. 

"  Something  I  think  you  '11  like— oh,  ever  so 
much ! "  She  patted  and  pinched  the  limp 
gloves  into  shape,  not  looking  at  him. 

"  Hit  me  with  it,"  he  said.  "  Mrs.  Seymour 's 
just  given  me  that  glass  haK  full  of  brandy; 
you  can't  expect  me  to  guess  after  that." 

"  That  we  should  go  back  to  San  Francisco." 

Her  news  had  more  effect  than  even  she  had 
expected.  The  colonel  sat  up  as  if  he  had  been 
struck,  his  lips  quivering  into  a  smile  that  he 
feared  to  indulge. 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  Viola  ?  Do  you  really 
mean  it  1 "  he  asked. 

"  Of  course  I  do.    I  thought  you  'd  like  it." 

"  But  do  you  like  it  ?  Do  you  want  to  go  ? 
Is  n't  there— would  n't  you  rather  stay  here?" 

"  Oh,  no."  She  struck  lightly  on  the  edge  of 
the  table  with  the  gloves,  avoiding  his  eyes. 
"I  'd  rather  be  there.  We  've  had  our  little 
change,  and  we  can  go  back.     It  's  our  home, 


HARD-PAN  223 

anyway;  and  we  've  enough  money  to  last 
for  a  long  time  yet." 

"  Of  course  we  have,  and  it  does  n't  matter  if 
we  have  n't."  The  old  man's  face  burned  with 
excitement  and  joy.  "  But  the  house  is  sold ! 
Where  shall  we  go  ?  Oh,  that  does  n't  matter, 
either.  We  can  get  rooms  near  there.  You  'd 
like  to  be  back  near  the  old  place,  would  n't  you  ? 
We  could  go  to  Mrs.  Cassidy's ;  you  know  she 
rents  her  two  back  rooms  on  the  second  floor. 
Oh,  Viola— to  be  back  again !  " 

He  sank  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  half  shut 
in  the  ecstasy  of  this  sudden  restoration  to 
happiness. 

"  Just  think  of  it ! "  he  said.  "  To  see  the  bay 
again,  and  Lotta's  Fountain,  and  Montgomery 
Street !  and  to  smell  the  sea  outside  the  Golden 
Gate  when  the  wind  's  that  way !  and  to  feel 
the  fog!  Viola,  you  don't  know  what  I  've 
suffered.     I  never  meant  to  tell  you." 

"  I  know— I  know  now.  But  I  did  n't  guess 
at  first— truly,  father,  I  did  n't  know  at  first." 

"Why,  of  course  not,  honey— how  should 
you?  And  it  does  n't  matter  now.  It  's  all 
over,  and  we  're  going  to  have  the  time  of  our 
lives.  But  it  was  awful,  was  n't  it!  Every- 
thing was  so  lonesome  and  strange.  And  those 
dreadful  people !  But  we  won't  have  any  more 
bother  with  them.  When  '11  we  start  ?  Let 's 
not  waste  any  time." 


224  HARD-PAN 

Viola  had  turned  away  to  the  tall  glass  be- 
hind him,  under  the  pretense  of  taking  off  her 
hat.  She  could  not  control  her  tears.  As  she 
stood,  seeing  her  blurred  image  dark  against  the 
lamplight,  she  could  hear  the  colonel  babbling 
on,  apparently  too  preoccupied  to  notice  that 
she  was  not  answering : 

"  It  '11  be  warm  when  we  get  back— not  this 
diabolical  heat,  but  just  soft  and  sunny.  The 
hills  will  be  all  brown.  Presently  there  '11  be 
a  smell  of  eucalyptus  in  the  air,  but  that  won't 
be  till  later,  when  the  evenings  are  short.  Oh, 
I  'm  so  glad  we  're  going  back !  It  's  like  get- 
ting out  of  prison." 

He  was  suddenly  silent,  and  Viola  heard  him 
making  a  slight  rustling  movement  in  his  chair. 
Then  the  room  was  very  quiet,  for  Corinne  had 
stopped  beating  with  her  toes.  For  a  space 
Viola  struggled  with  herself,  biting  her  lips, 
and  surreptitiously  taking  out  her  handkerchief 
and  pressing  it  against  her  face.  She  was 
more  afraid  of  the  piercing  eyes  of  Corinne 
than  of  her  father,  and  when  she  had  con- 
trolled herself  sufficiently  to  be  presentable,  she 
looked  in  the  mirror  to  see  if  Corinne  had  been 
observing  her.  Instead,  she  saw  the  child 
standing  up  some  few  steps  away  from  the 
colonel,  regarding  him  with  an  expression  of 
keen,  suspended  intentness  that  was  at  once 
curious  and  fearful. 


HARD-PAN  225 

As  Viola's  eyes  encountered  the  reflection, 
and  read  in  it  terror  and  alarm,  Corinne  spoke 
in  a  quick,  frightened  voice : 

"Look  at  the  colonel,  Viola.  He  looks  so 
queer.     I  don't  like  him." 

Viola  was  at  his  side  before  the  child  had 
ceased  speaking. 

The  colonel's  head  had  dropped  forward  on 
his  breast.  A  yellowish,  waxen  hue  had  spread 
over  his  face,  and  his  eyes,  cold  and  brooding, 
were  staring  straight  before  him. 

"  Father ! "  she  said,  touching  his  hand  with  a 
strange  fearfulness  she  had  never  felt  before. 

The  word  sounded  portentously  loud  in  the 
deep,  mysterious  stillness  that  had  settled  on 
the  room.  Awe  of  something  majestic  and 
terrible  clutched  Viola's  heart.  As  she  stood 
staring,  she  heard  the  child  screaming  down 
the  hall : 

"Mommer!  Mommer!  the  colonel  's  sick 
again,  and  his  eyes  are  open.  Oh,  come  quick 
— come  quick !  " 

A  moment  later  Mrs.  Seymour's  heavy  foot- 
fall sounded  at  the  doorway,  and  she  entered 
panting.  As  her  glance  fell  on  the  colonel,  she 
gave  a  sharp  sound. 

"What  is  iti"  whispered  Viola,  her  tongue 
suddenly  dry  and  stiff  as  a  piece  of  leather. 
"  He  won't  speak." 

Mrs.  Seymour  stepped  forward,  and  laying 


226  HARD-PAN 

her  hand  on  the  colonel's  eyes,  softly  closed 
the  lids. 

"He  won't  never  speak  no  more,. my  dear," 
she  said  gently. 

Viola  looked  at  her  with  a  wild  and  terrified 
face. 

"  Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Seymour !  "  she  cried.  "  Oh, 
no— oh,  not  that !  We  were  just  going  away— 
we  were  going  home !  Oh,  it  could  n't  be  that ; 
it 's  too  cruel,  it 's  too  unnecessary.  He  wanted 
so  to  go!  There  was  no  harm  in  it.  Why 
could  n't  they  have  waited  till  we  'd  got 
home  I " 

She  raised  her  hands  to  her  head  in  a  gesture 
of  dazed  despair,  and  fell  senseless  into  Mrs. 
Seymour's  arms. 


VII 


ONE  week  from  the  day  Viola  had  told  her 
father  of  their  contemplated  return  to 
San  Francisco,  Colonel  Reed  had  passed  into  a 
memory. 

Death  had  come  and  gone  so  quickly— so  ter- 
ribly, bewilderingly  quickly  !  Viola  had  hardly 
realized  what  had  happened  to  so  check  and 
change  the  current  of  her  life  when  the  days 
had  already  sprung  back  to  their  monotonous 
routine,  and  the  other  boarders  had  laid  aside 
the  expressions  of  lugubrious  solemnity  which 
they  had  worn  while  death  had  hushed  the 
house.  Now,  while  she  sat  still  and  stupid  in 
her  room  up-stairs,  they  told  funny  stories  and 
"  joshed "  each  other  at  dinner,  as  they  had 
"joshed"  the  old  pioneer  a  few  weeks  before. 
Even  Corinne  had  returned  to  the  doll  and  the 
kitten,  though,  out  of  consideration  for  Viola, 
she  played  with  them  furtively  on  the  corner 
of  the  balcony,  where,  with  the  assistance  of  an 
old  umbrella  and  a  pair  of  towels,  she  had 
built  herself  what  she  called   a  house.     One 


228  HARD-PAN 

morning,  stepping  out  upon  the  balcony,  Viola 
came  upon  the  child  lying  face  downward  and 
whispering  to  herself  while  she  played  the  soli- 
taire the  colonel  had  taught  her,  with  the  pack 
of  cards  he  had  bought  for  her  a  few  days  before 
his  death. 

The  waters  of  oblivion  had  closed  without  a 
ripple  over  the  old  pioneer.  In  the  dingy 
boarding-house  where  he  had  spent  the  last 
months  of  his  life  his  name  was  unknown,  and 
his  fellow-lodgers  had  come  to  regard  the  per- 
sonal part  of  his  reminiscences  as  figments  of 
his  imagination.  So  obscure  had  been  his  situ- 
ation, so  little  trusted  his  own  words,  that  his 
passing  had  not  even  been  awarded  the  short 
newspaper  notice  that  is  evoked  by  the  death 
of  the  most  commonplace  forty-niner.  In  the 
Sacramento  boarding-house  Colonel  Reed  was 
as  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land.  Only  his 
daughter,  Mrs.  Seymour,  and  Bart  Nelson  were 
the  mourners  at  the  funeral  of  the  man  who 
had  once  been  one  of  the  most  extravagant 
and  picturesque  figures  of  California's  brilliant 
youth. 

At  the  end  of  the  week  Viola  was  to  return 
to  San  Francisco.  In  her  heart-sickness  and 
desolation  she  had  turned  to  her  home  as  a  cat 
does.  After  the  first  stunned  bewilderment 
she  woke  to  a  sense  of  loneliness  that  chilled 
her  to  the  marrow.     The  world  seemed  terribly 


HARD-PAN  229 

wide  and  menacing  as  she  stood  thus  hesitating 
on  its  verge.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
realized  what  it  meant  to  be  alone,  to  be  thrown 
into  that  great  maelstrom  without  a  hand  to 
hold  or  a  shoulder  to  lean  on. 

She  had  no  intimates  —  few  acquaintances, 
even.  The  houses  and  streets  of  San  Francisco 
came  to  her  mind  with  a  more  friendly  aspect 
than  the  people.  Mrs.  Seymour  had  asked  her 
if  she  should  write  to  any  one.  She  had  an- 
swered that  there  was  no  one  to  write  to.  The 
good-natured  landlady  had  gazed  at  the  girl— 
looking  so  slight  and  pale  in  her  somber  draper- 
ies—with a  frowning  and  fidgeted  anxiety. 
She  thought  it  a  very  hazardous  thing  to  let 
this  delicate  creature,  still  half  stupefied  by  a 
sudden  blow,  go  away  alone  and  unprotected 
into  a  city  of  strangers.  But  Viola  insisted. 
To  herself  she  kept  reiterating,  "  I  want  to  go 
home."  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  gaunt,  gray 
city,  crowded  on  its  wind-swept  hills,  would 
welcome  her  with  the  silent,  understanding  love 
of  a  mother.  It  was  the  one  friend  she  knew 
and  trusted. 

After  the  expenses  of  the  colonel's  funeral 
were  paid  and  her  score  settled  with  Mrs.  Sey- 
mour, she  had  still  nearly  one  thousand  dollars 
left.  This  to  her  represented  a  little  fortune. 
Even  without  work  she  could  live  on  it  for 
several  years.    Economy  had  been  the  only 


230  HARD-PAN 

completed  branch  in  Viola's  education,  and  in 
this  she  was  as  proficient  as  she  was  ignorant 
of  all  pertaining  to  business  and  the  investment 
or  disposal  of  money.  If  she  could  find  em- 
ployment she  would  put  her  money  away— tie 
it  up  in  an  old  glove,  and  hide  it  in  the  bottom 
of  her  trunk.  Mrs.  Seymour  had  refused  to 
allow  her  to  leave  until  she  had  positively  ar- 
ranged for  a  place  of  abode  which  would  be 
waiting  and  ready  for  her.  Under  the  direc- 
tion of  that  sensible  woman,  Viola  had  written 
and  engaged  one  of  Mrs.  Cassidy's  upper  back 
rooms  —  it  being  the  only  place  of  its  kind  in 
the  city  where  she  knew  the  people. 

The  evening  before  her  departure  the  last 
leaf  was  added  to  this  momentous  and  miser- 
able Sacramento  chapter.  Meeting  her  in  the 
sitting-room,  Bart  Nelson  had  detained  her  and 
made  a  halting  and  bashful  offer  of  marriage. 
Viola,  too  stunned  by  the  terrible  surprise  of 
the  past  week  to  have  room  for  any  more  aston- 
ishment, had  listened  to  him  indifferently,  and 
then  politely  but  coldly  refused  him. 

The  young  man  seemed  to  be  astonished. 
He  looked  at  her  incredulously. 

"But— but,"  he  stammered,  "what  are  you 
going  to  do  ?  " 

"  I  'm  going  to  San  Francisco  to-morrow," 
she  answered,  rather  wearily,  as  she  knew  he 
was  aware  of  her  purpose. 


HARD-PAN  231 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  when  you 
get  there  ? " 

"  I  'm  going  to  work  at  something." 

"Work  at  something!  What  in  the  world 
can  you  work  at  ?  You  look  as  if  you  had  n't 
strength  enough  to  grind  an  organ !  You  must 
be  crazy." 

"  I  can  work  at  anything,"  she  said,  almost 
absently.  "Besides,  I  have  money  to  live  on, 
enough  for  a  long  time  —  several  years." 

He  looked  at  her  moodily,  amazed  by  her 
indifference. 

"  It  would  be  a  hundred  times  better  for  you 
to  stay  here  and  marry  me.  I  'd  take  care  of 
you  and  support  you.  Ain't  that  better  for  a 
woman  than  scratching  along  by  herself  ?  Mrs. 
Seymour  says  you  have  n't  got  a  friend  in  San 
Francisco." 

"  No ;  but  I  don't  mind  that.  I  don't  want  to 
marry.     I  don't  ever  want  to." 

"  But  is  n't  it  better  to  have  a  man  to  work  for 
you,  and  give  you  a  nice  comfortable  home,  and 
—  well  —  of  course,  be  fond  of  you,  and  all  that 
— than  to  go  off  by  yourself,  trusting  to  luck 
to  get  work?  You  don't  know  what  you  're 
in  for." 

"  Perhaps  I  don't.  But  truly,  there  's  no  use 
talking  about  it  any  more.  I  can't.  I  could  n't, 
no  matter  what  happened.  It  was  kind  of  you 
to  think  of  me.     Thank  you,  and  good-by." 


232  HARD-PAN 

When  she  had  gained  her  own  room  she 
stood  among  her  scattered  possessions,  think- 
ing. No  one  knew  how  terrifying  her  loneli- 
ness seemed  to  her.  As  she  looked  out  at  it 
now,  so  close  at  hand,  to  begin  to-morrow,  her 
heart  sickened,  and  the  bleakness  of  an  encom- 
passing world,  all  strange,  all  cold,  all  uncaring, 
seemed  to  encircle  her.  Were  not  protection, 
companionship,  home,  at  any  price,  better  than 
this  ?  She  recalled  the  young  man's  coarse  but 
good-natured  face,  his  passion  shining  through 
the  businesslike  phlegm  of  his  manner,  and 
uttered  a  vehement  exclamation,  at  the  same 
time  making  a  gesture  as  though  repulsing 
him.  There  were  some  things  that  even  to  a 
woman  in  her  position  were  impossible. 

The  next  day  she  started,  turning  her  back 
on  her  father's  grave,  and  her  face  toward  the 
city  where  she  had  been  born  and  yet  had  not 
a  friend. 

Had  Mrs.  Cassidy  heard  this  stricture  upon 
her  lonely  condition,  she  would  have  hotly  de- 
nied it.  Mrs.  Cassidy  told  Viola  that  she  would 
be  at  once  a  mother  and  a  father  to  her,  and 
Micky  Cassidy,  her  son,  would  fill  the  various 
positions  of  male  relations  that,  in  Miss  Eeed's 
case,  were  as  yet  untenanted.  The  impulsive 
widow  did  her  best  to  make  the  girl  feel  at 
home,  and  certainly  offered  Viola  the  consola- 
tion of  shedding  many  tears  with  her,  and  of 


HARD-PAN  233 

lauding  the  colonel's  good  qualities  till  even 
the  girl's  dulled  emotions  were  roused,  and  she 
wept  as  she  had  not  done  since  her  father's 
death. 

But  her  home-coming  was  sharpened  with 
pangs  that  she  had  not  reckoned  on  when  her 
first  longing  to  return  to  the  city  swept  over 
her.  Every  step  of  her  surroundings  was  remi- 
niscent of  her  father  and  of  their  close  com- 
panionship. All  the  byways  held  recollections 
of  him,  of  small  happenings  that,  at  the  time, 
had  been  pregnant  with  joy  or  anxiety,  of  little 
jokes  they  had  had  together.  The  shops  they 
dealt  at  seemed  as  if  they  might  at  any  mo- 
ment disgorge  his  tall,  angular  figure,  with  its 
quick,  decisive  step,  the  old  face  alight  with 
smiles  as  his  eye  fell  on  her. 

One  afternoon,  after  she  had  been  home  a 
week,  she  was  returning  from  a  walk,  slowly 
traversing  the  familiar  streets,  absorbed  in  her 
own  thoughts.  So  engrossed  was  she  that,  for 
the  moment,  the  Sacramento  interval,  with  all 
that  it  had  held,  was  obliterated  from  her  mind, 
and,  walking  loiteringly,  she  turned  the  accus- 
tomed corner  and  approached  the  house.  Her 
suspension  of  memory  lasted  till  she  had  her 
hand  on  the  gate.  Then,  with  a  sudden,  dizzy- 
ing rush,  the  consciousness  of  the  present 
returned.  She  felt  faint  and  sick,  and  stood 
holding  the  gate-post  and  looking  up  at  the 


234  HARD-PAN 

house  with  a  frightened  face.  When  she  had 
mastered  herself  she  went  home  to  her  room  at 
Mrs.  Cassidy's  and  locked  herself  in.  Mrs. 
Cassidy  knocked  at  her  door  three  times  that 
evening,  but  Viola  would  not  open  it,  even 
when  the  widow,  through  the  keyhole,  extolled 
the  merits  of  the  tea  she  had  waiting  on  the 
tray. 

The  next  day  Viola  appeared  to  be  herself, 
though  she  looked  white  and  listless,  and  Mrs. 
Cassidy  resolved  to  impart  to  her  a  piece  of 
information  that,  with  great  effort  of  will,  she 
had  been  hoarding  up  to  cheer  a  particularly 
dark  hour.  It  was  her  habit  to  bring  Viola 
her  tea  at  six,  and  during  this  meal  to  seat  her- 
self and  discourse  with  her  lodger  in  a  friendly 
and  cheering  spirit.  The  widow  loved  a  gos- 
sip, and  it  seemed  to  her  that  Miss  Eeed  was 
a  person  more  redolent  of  romance  than  any 
one  she  had  ever  known  before. 

Rocking  comfortably  back  and  forth  in  the 
plush-covered,  ribbon-decked  rocking-chair,  she 
watched  her  lodger  as  she  poured  out  her  tea, 
and  delicately,  after  the  manner  of  people  who 
are  without  appetite,  broke  small  fragments  off 
her  roll  and  put  them  in  her  mouth.  Then,  in  a 
voice  vibrating  with  secret  exultation,  she  said : 

"  You  won't  always  feel  so  bad  as  this,  honey. 
Things  cheer  up  sooner  'n  we  expect,  and  black 
clouds  have   silver  linin's.      Besides,  there  's 


HARD-PAN  235 

friends  of  yours  that  would  n't  let  you  want 
for  nothin',  if  they  knew  you  was  back." 

She  saw  the  piece  of  roll  stop  midway  be- 
tween Viola's  mouth  and  the  plate,  and  her  eyes 
fix  themselves  on  the  lid  of  the  tea-pot  in  an 
arrested  stare. 

"  Who  do  you  mean  ? "  said  the  girl,  the  even 
modulations  of  her  voice  not  hiding  its  under- 
tone of  apprehension. 

"Who  do  you  suppose?"  retorted  Mrs.  Cas- 
sidy,  teasingly. 

"  I  can't  imagine,"  replied  Viola.  "  I  have  n't 
the  slightest  idea  to  whom  you  're  referring." 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,  now,"  said  Mrs.  Cassidy, 
wagging  her  head  knowingly,  and  flushing  over 
her  broad,  buxom  face  with  the  pleasure  of  her 
secret.     "  Try  and  guess." 

"  Who  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Cassidy  ?"  said  Viola. 
Her  pretension  of  indifference  had  suddenly 
disappeared.  She  tried  to  make  her  voice  com- 
manding, but  it  was  full  of  a  frightened  distress. 

"  Mr.  John  Gault,"  announced  the  other,  her 
narrow  eyes,  alight  with  curiosity,  fastened  on 
her  lodger's  face.  The  change  in  its  expression, 
quick,  inexplicable  in  its  sudden  tightening  of 
the  muscles  and  veiling  of  the  eyes,  told  the 
watcher,  not  what  the  romance  was  that  she  so 
keenly  scented,  but  confirmed  her  suspicions 
that  there  was  a  romance  of  some  sort  or 
other. 


236  HARD-PAN 

Viola  turned  back  to  the  tea-things.  As 
she  moved  them  about,  the  eager  eyes  of  the 
watcher  saw  that  her  hands  were  trembling. 

"  He  's  the  finest  gentleman  I  ever  set  eyes 
on  since  I  came  to  California,"  continued  the 
widow,  immensely  interested  and  hardly  able 
to  wait  for  further  developments.  "I  said  to 
Micky,  after  he  'd  been  here,  'There,  Mick 
Cassidy,  is  the  way  they  grow  real  gentlemen. 
No  imitation  about  him ! ' " 

"  Was  he  lieref''  came  the  question,  in  a  hardly 
comprehending  voice. 

"He  was  that— and  to  find  out  about  you. 
He  was  that  crazy  to  know  where  you  'd  gone 
that  he  was  at  Coggles's,  and  had  the  Robsons 
turned  'most  inside  out  with  his  questions. 
When  he  could  n't  get  nothing  out  of  them,  he 
got  detectives  to  track  out  Mick,— 'cause,  you 
remember,  he  'd  left  that  package,— and  he  was 
here  to  find  out  what  I  knew.  Oh,  he  's  got  it 
bad." 

Viola,  conscious  of  the  scrutiny  fastened 
upon  her,  bent  her  face  over  the  tray.  She 
began  to  make  another  cup  of  tea. 

"  I  could  n't  give  him  no  information,"  con- 
tinued Mrs.  Cassidy — "  more  's  the  pity,  for  I 
ain't  never  seen  a  gentleman  that  took  my  fancy 
more;  and  just  as  pleasant  and  agreeable  as 
if  he  was  no  better  off  than  me  or  Mick.  Police- 
man O'Hara,  when  I  asked  him,  says  to  me: 


HARD-PAN  237 

'  Rich  ?  Why,  Mrs.  Cassidy,  he 's  more  money 
in  a  minute  than  you  '11  ever  see  in  your  life. 
He  's  a  capitalist,  and  not  mean,  like  the  rest  of 
'em,  neither.' " 

Though  the  widow's  tongue  had  been  busy, 
her  eyes  had  followed  the  tea-making  closely. 
It  was  not  a  success.  Viola  had  abandoned  it, 
and  her  hands  were  now  clasped  under  the  edge 
of  the  table.  But  she  made  no  comment,  sitting 
motionless,  with  her  face  averted.  Nothing 
daunted,  Mrs.  Cassidy  returned  to  the  charge. 

"  He  was  just  dead  set  upon  finding  you.  He 
says  to  me  as  he  left,  says  he, '  If  you  hear  any- 
thing of  her,  Mrs.  Cassidy,  let  me  know.  Send 
over  Mick  the  first  thing  in  the  morning.' " 

It  must  be  confessed  that  Mrs.  Cassidy's 
imagination  had  added  this  last  touch ;  but  to 
Viola,  in  her  fluttered  alarm,  it  carried  no  sug- 
gestion of  fiction. 

"Mrs.  Cassidy,"  she  said,  turning  on  the 
woman,  "you  have  n't  let  him  know?  You 
have  n't  sent  Mick  I" 

"Lord  love  you,  no,  dear,"  returned  the 
widow,  good-humoredly.  "I  was  waiting  till 
you  pulled  yourself  together  a  little  more.  But 
don't  you  think,  now,"— she  leaned  forward  and 
spoke  in  a  wheedling  tone,  but  with  her  eyes 
full  of  an  avid  interest,—"  don't  you  think  you 
might  write  a  little  letter,  and  Mick  '11  take  it 
over  to  his  office  this  evening  ? " 


238  HARD-PAN 

Viola  pushed  back  from  the  table,  her  face 
suddenly  suffused  with  an  angry  red. 

"  No— no  !  "  she  cried  violently.  "  Don't  think 
of  such  a  thing— don't  suggest  it!  I  don't 
want  to  see  that  gentleman  again,  ever.  This 
is  my  affair,  Mrs.  Cassidy ;  leave  it  to  me." 

She  rose  from  the  table  and  walked  to  the 
window. 

"  There  's  no  use  gettin'  mad  about  it,"  re- 
torted the  other,  somewhat  tartly,  rising  from 
the  rocker  and  setting  the  tea-things  on  the 
tray.  "  I  'm  only  tryin'  to  do  the  best  I  can 
for  you.  And  it  don't  seem  to  me  just  right 
for  a  girl  like  you,  young  and  not  over-strong, 
to  be  knockin'  round  this  way,  when  she  's 
got  friends  ready  to  black  her  boots  for  her. 
Still,  it 's  your  funeral,  not  mine." 

There  was  no  reply,  and  as  she  lifted  the 
tray  she  said  in  an  aggrieved  tone : 

"I  don't  want  to  hurt  no  one's  feelin's,  but 
I  want  to  do  my  dooty  in  this  world.  Well, 
good  night,  deary.  Don't  get  down  on  your 
luck.     You  're  not  so  friendless  as  you  think." 

After  she  had  left  the  room,  Viola  stood 
motionless,  looking  out  of  the  window  on  the 
gi'ay  and  soot-grimed  back  yard.  Night  was 
falling,  and  the  washing,  still  pendulating  on 
its  lines  after  the  slovenly  fashion  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, gleamed  white  and  ghostly  through 
the  dusk.     A  high  brick  wall  shut  off  the  end 


HARD-PAN  239 

of  the  lot,  and  over  this,  dark,  mournful-looking 
trails  of  ivy  hung  downward,  rubbing  back 
and  forth  in  the  passing  breaths  of  wind.  It 
was  a  prospect  and  an  hour  conducive  to  mel- 
ancholy. But  Viola  felt  none.  For  the  mo- 
ment a  sense  of  hunted  terror  had  shut  out  all 
other  feelings. 

He  had  searched  for  her,  employed  detec- 
tives to  try  and  find  a  clue  to  her  hiding-place ! 
And  now,  led  by  some  horrible  caprice  of  des- 
tiny, she  had  walked  into  the  very  house  where 
he  would  soonest  find  her.  She  must  go  to- 
morrow. Mrs.  Cassidy  could  not  be  trusted. 
The  expression  of  her  face,  with  its  ugly,  half- 
concealed  triumph  and  its  coarsely  prying  in- 
terest, warned  the  girl  that  the  secret  of  her 
whereabouts  would  not  long  remain  with  the 
widow.  In  a  fever  of  anxiety  she  paced  up 
and  down  the  room.  Her  nerves,  broken  by 
the  shock  and  strain  of  the  past  two  weeks, 
exaggerated  the  importance  of  the  situation, 
till  she  felt  as  if  Mrs.  Cassidy  and  Gault  had 
spread  a  net  around  her,  from  which,  in  her 
weakness,  she  would  never  be  able  to  break 
away. 

She  fell  asleep,  only  to  wake  in  the  dead  of 
the  night,  shaken  into  throbbing  consciousness 
by  the  thought  that  the  widow  had  already 
communicated  with  Gault,  and  that  the  con- 
versation of  that  evening  was  for  the  purpose 


240  HARD-PAN 

of  preparing  her  for  the  appearance  of  her  lover. 
Curled  np  and  trembling  under  the  clothes,  she 
lay  staring  into  the  blackness  about  her.  It 
seemed  a  reflex,  in  its  impenetrable  gloom,  of  her 
own  surroundings.  With  the  goblin  terrors  of 
night  weighing  upon  her  overwrought  spirit, 
she  felt  too  helpless  and  feeble  to  battle  with  a 
life  that  was  so  beset  with  pitfalls.  The  dreari- 
ness of  her  isolation,  the  hopelessness  of  her 
misplaced  love,  that  should  have  been  the 
crown  of  her  life,  and  was  instead  its  direst 
dread  and  peril,  seemed  combining  to  crush 
her,  and  in  her  despair  she  pressed  her  face 
into  the  pillow  and  whispered  wild  supplications 
for  death. 

The  next  morning  life  did  not  look  so  for- 
midable. Things  fell  into  their  proper  per- 
spective, and  Viola's  fears  of  Mrs.  Cassidy  as  an 
agent  of  destruction  appeared  phantasmagoric. 
Nevertheless,  sunlight  and  its  restoring  influ- 
ences did  not  allay  all  her  doubts  of  the  woman. 
She  had  seen  her  thoughts  and  intentions  writ- 
ten on  her  face,  and  she  knew  that  it  would 
only  be  a  question  of  time  when  she  would  be 
tempted  to  communicate  with  Gault. 

She  determined  to  leave  Mrs.  Cassidy  with  no 
clue  as  to  her  new  place  of  residence.  She  had 
no  idea  as  to  where  she  would  go,  except  that 
she  would  try  to  find  a  lodging  as  far  from 
where  she  was  now  as  possible.     This  would  be 


HARD-PAN  241 

an  easy  matter.  The  town  seemed  to  be  plac- 
arded from  end  to  end  with  the  signs  of  "  Fur- 
nished Rooms."  Viola  was  brave,  now  the  morn- 
ing had  come,  and  with  it  sunhght.  Moreover, 
the  thought  of  moving  from  the  locality  every 
corner  of  which  seemed  alive  with  memories 
of  her  father  was  a  sustaining  relief. 

After  breakfast  she  acquainted  Mrs.  Cassidy 
with  her  intention  of  leaving,  giving  as  her 
reason  the  fact  that  that  portion  of  the  city  was 
too  full  of  painful  memories  for  her  to  remain 
in  it.  The  widow  received  the  news  with  loud 
lamentations,  which  ended  almost  in  tears.  As 
soon  as  she  had  overcome  her  surprise  and 
commanded  her  feelings,  she  besieged  Viola 
with  questions  as  to  where  she  intended  going. 
The  girl,  who  was  not  skilful  at  this  sort  of 
duel,  found  it  difficult  to  evade  her  hostess's 
vigilant  determination  to  maintain  her  surveil- 
lance. Viola  was  soon  red  and  stammering 
under  the  widow's  persistent  and  unescapable 
queries,  and  her  discomfort  was  not  lessened  by 
the  realization  that  Mrs.  Cassidy  had  guessed 
her  real  reason  for  leaving  and  had  resented 
it. 

It  was  a  clear,  soft  morning,  the  air  still  and 
golden.  In  its  brief  Indian  summer  the  city 
seemed  to  stretch  itself,  and  lie  warm,  apathetic, 
and  relaxed,  basking  in  the  mellowness  of  its 
autumnal  quiet.     That  part  of  it  toward  which 


242  HARD-PAN 

Viola  directed  her  course  was  almost  as  old  as 
the  locality  where  she  had  passed  her  unevent- 
ful girlhood.  Boarding  an  electric  car,  she 
crossed  the  low  basin  of  the  town,  where  origi- 
nally the  village  of  Yerba  Buena  skirted  the  cove 
in  straggling  huts  and  tents.  Here  the  busi- 
ness life  of  a  metropolis  is  compressed  into  an 
area  covered  by  a  few  blocks.  Women  do  their 
shopping  one  street  away  from  where  men  are 
making  the  money  which  renders  the  shopping 
possible.  The  car  swept  Viola  through  the  gay 
panorama  that  Kearney  Street  presents  on  a 
sunny  morning,  out  past  Portsmouth  Square, 
with  a  glimpse  of  Chinese  back  balconies,  where 
lines  of  flowering  plants,  the  dip  of  swaying 
lanterns,  and  here  and  there  the  brilliant  spot 
of  color  made  by  a  woman  or  a  child,  bring  to 
the  scene  a  whiff  of  the  Orient. 

Beyond,  where  the  broken  flank  of  Tele- 
graph Hill  rises  gaunt  and  red  amid  its  cling- 
ing tenements,  she  alighted  and  continued  her 
way  on  foot.  She  made  a  detour  round  the 
forbidding  steeps  of  the  hill,  past  narrow  alleys 
where  shawled  figures  slunk  along  lengths  of 
sun-touched  wall,  by  old  verandahed  houses 
brooding  under  rusty  cypress-trees,  by  straight- 
fronted,  plastered  dwellings,  the  stucco  streaked 
with  dark  rain-stains  like  the  traces  of  tears 
on  a  face  too  dejected  to  care  how  it  looked. 
Finally  the  street  rose  over  a  spur  of  the  hill, 


HARD-PAN  243 

then  dipped,  sloping  down  to  the  hollow  of 
North  Beach. 

There  was  a  sudden  widening  of  the  horizon 
on  every  side.  Marine  views  broke  on  the  eye 
through  the  spaces  between  high,  cramped,  flat 
buildings,  over  the  tops  of  decrepit  cottages,  in 
the  breaks  between  peeling,  vine-draped  walls. 
Vivid  bits  of  sea  were  set  in  mosaic-like  clear- 
ness between  the  trunks  of  dark  old  trees  in 
gardens  that  were  planted  when  the  region  was 
yet  suburban.  The  end  of  the  street's  vista 
was  filled  with  its  blue  expanse,  with  the  dis- 
tant hills  beyond— all  clear  lights  and  shadows 
on  this  sun-steeped  autumn  morning. 

Here  was  spaciousness  and  room.  The  torn 
hill,  battered  and  weather-beaten  with  the 
stress  and  turmoil  of  the  elements,  stood  up 
from  the  lower  portions  of  the  city  in  an  eter- 
nal wash  of  air  fresh  from  the  ocean.  Houses 
clung  to  it  like  barnacles.  On  its  sharper 
steeps  they  seemed  to  be  hanging  precariously, 
clutching  to  irregularities  in  the  soil,  cowering 
down  in  hollows,  or  gripping  rocky  projections. 
But  on  its  seaboard  face  the  slope  was  more 
gradual,  and  here,  in  the  old  days,  prosperous 
families  had  once  built  charming  villas,  where, 
from  rose- shaded  balconies,  the  inmates  could 
look  on  the  bay,  sometimes  a  weltering  waste, 
sometimes  a  vast  sapphire  level  tracked  with 
the  trails  of  sailing-vessels  bending  to  the  trades. 


244  HARD-PAN 

Viola  knew  that  North  Beach,  like  her  old 
home,  was  a  quarter  upon  which  fashion  had 
turned  its  back.  Rents  were  low  there,  and, 
judging  by  the  number  of  signs  of  "  Furnished 
Eooms,"  the  inhabitants  must  be  poor.  She 
began  her  search  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  work- 
ing up  through  the  streets  that  struck  her 
as  at  once  clean  and  respectable-looking.  But 
even  her  humble  requirements  were  hard  to 
fill. 

By  noontime,  passing  back  and  forth  from 
street  to  street,  she  had  gained  the  top  of  the 
hill.  She  had  seen  nothing  at  once  tolerable 
to  her  taste  and  suitable  to  her  purse.  Now, 
spent  with  fatigue  and  disappointment,  she 
climbed  a  last  breathless  ascent,  and  came  out 
upon  the  slope  below  the  summit.  This  space 
of  open  ground,  devoid  of  streets,  and  with 
here  and  there  a  hovel  squalidly  sprawling 
amid  its  own  debris,  slants  up  the  crest  of  the 
incline  upon  which  perches  the  deserted  ob- 
servatory, worn  and  weather-stained  into  an 
appearance  of  mellow  antiquity. 

Even  at  this  warm  noonday  hour  the  air 
was  pure  and  balmily  clear.  Viola  sank  down, 
panting,  on  a  broken  sod,  and  several  dogs, 
attracted  by  the  unusual  presence  of  a  stran- 
ger, rushed  upon  her  from  one  of  the  neighbor- 
ing shanties,  barking  frenziedly.  Some  hens 
joined  them,  and  for  a  moment  they  stood  in 


HARD-PAN  245 

an  excited  group,  evidently  meditating  a  sor- 
tie. Presently  a  tousled  woman  in  a  wrapper 
emerged  from  the  house  and  threw  an  old  boot 
at  them,  at  which  they  scattered— the  hens 
running  off  in  staggering  terror,  the  dogs 
scuttling  away  to  safer  regions,  their  tails 
tucked  in. 

The  silence  that  settled  was  crystalline.  It 
seemed  to  place  the  city  at  a  curiously  remote 
distance.  Far  below  her,  Viola  could  see  the 
wharves  and  the  masts  of  ships  that  lay  idle  by 
the  quays.  Men  were  running  about  down  there 
with  the  smooth,  sure  movements  of  mechan- 
ical toys.  Drays  passed  along  the  water-front, 
and  little  light  wagons  that  sped  by  in  a  sudden 
wake  of  dust.  From  there,  and  from  regions 
unseen,  sounds  came  up  to  her  with  clear  dis- 
tinctness. A  bell  rang,  a  dog  barked,  a  child 
cried  piercingly— each  sound  seeming  to  rise 
separate  and  finely  accentuated  from  the  muf- 
fled roar  which  broods  over  the  hives  of  men. 

She  leaned  back  against  the  broken  ground 
behind  her  and  looked  sleepily  about.  The 
parched  sward  was  lined  by  little  paths  that 
seemed  to  cross  and  recross  each  other  in  pur- 
poseless wanderings.  Some  led  to  the  edge  of 
a  quarry  that  had  torn  away  a  huge  chunk  of 
the  hill  as  though  a  giant  lion  had  struck  down 
and  ripped  off  a  piece  of  its  flank.  Below  her 
were  the  roofs  and  chimneys  of  houses  on  the 


246  HARD-PAN 

face  of  the  slope.  Smoke  came  from  the  chim- 
neys and  went  up  straight,  and  here  and  there 
the  ragged  foliage  of  eucalyptus-trees  that  had 
grown  sere  and  scant  in  the  turmoil  of  wintry 
gales  hung  motionless,  resting  on  this  day  of 
grace.  It  must  be  near  midday,  Viola  thought, 
and,  even  as  the  thought  formed  in  her  mind, 
all  the  whistles  of  the  city  below  seemed  to 
suddenly  open  their  throats  and  blow  together 
—  a  long,  mellifluous,  fluent  sound.  Then  there 
was  a  pause,  and  odd  ones,  late  but  determined, 
took  up  the  cry  and  poured  out  their  hollow, 
reverberant  roar.  From  the  water-front  louder 
ones  came,  hoarse,  harsh,  dominant,  riding  the 
tumult  like  strident  talkers,  and  others,  shrill- 
toned,  broke  in,  high  and  protesting,  and  the 
note  of  distant  whistles,  away  in  the  Mission 
and  the  Potrero,  answered  again,  faint,  thin, 
and  far.    It  was  twelve  o'clock. 

Viola  gathered  herself  up  from  her  relaxed 
attitude.  She  had  been  hunting  now  for  two 
hours,  and  felt  tired  and  discouraged.  She 
wished  she  could  live  here,  since  one  must  live 
somewhere  —  just  here,  she  thought,  as  she 
rose  stiffly  to  her  feet  and  dusted  her  dress. 
No  one  would  ever  find  her,  and  there  was 
something  at  once  inspiring  and  soothing  in 
all  this  vast  panorama  of  sea  and  mountain 
and  this  wash  of  living  air.  She  looked  back 
at  the  house  the   woman  with  the  shoe  had 


HARD-PAN  247 

come  from,  and  wondered  if  even  there  they 
would  take  her  in.  The  woman  had  come  to  a 
doorway  now,  and  stood  there,  eying  her,  it 
seemed  to  Viola,  with  suspicious  disfavor ;  and 
even  as  she  looked,  the  dogs,  grown  brave 
again,  made  a  spirited  rally  round  the  cor- 
ner, and  came  yapping  about  her  heels.  She 
turned  and,  selecting  the  first  path  that  she 
saw,  walked  down  over  the  forward  face  of 
the  hill. 

The  fall  of  the  land  was  so  abrupt  here  that 
the  few  householders  had  had  to  build  steps 
from  the  street  below  to  their  gates.  Some 
had  even  gone  to  the  extravagance  of  a  hand- 
rail. Viola,  making  a  chary  descent,  was  at- 
tracted to  glance  about  her  by  a  sweet,  pungent 
fragrance,  and  looking  to  locate  its  source, 
found  herself  at  the  gate  of  a  house,  low,  long, 
and  narrow,  with  a  garden  on  the  outward 
side,  terraced  to  keep  the  soil  from  sliding 
bodily  down  into  the  back  yard  of  the  house 
below.  From  this  garden  rose  the  scent  that 
had  attracted  her.  It  was  the  soft,  illusive 
perfume  of  mignonette,  of  which  the  little  in- 
closure,  sheltered  from  the  winds  by  a  lattice- 
work fence,  held  a  goodly  store. 

The  love  of  flowers  was  strong  in  Viola,  and 
pressing  her  breast  against  the  top  of  the  fence, 
she  stood  peering  in  at  the  garden  with  its 
roughly  bordered  terraces  and  pebbled  paths. 


248  HARD-PAN 

The  mignonette  was  growing  in  a  border  that 
skirted  the  side  of  the  house.  In  the  parterres 
below  it  were  many  varieties  of  blossoming  an- 
nuals and  rose-bushes  still  densely  in  flower. 
The  cypress-trees  from  the  yard  below  showed 
their  dark,  funereal  tops  over  the  outer  fence, 
and  a  gaunt  eucalyptus  made  a  pattern  on  the 
pale  noonday  sky  with  its  drooping  foliage. 
From  the  garden  Viola's  gaze  turned  to  the 
house.  It  presented  its  side  to  the  view,  its 
narrow  front  to  the  street.  Its  seaward  face 
was  flanked  by  a  balcony,  and  windows,  com- 
manding the  enormous  sweep  of  water  and  dis- 
tant hills,  were  set  closely  along  the  wall.  In 
one  of  these  windows  Viola  saw  the  sign  her 
eyes  had  grown  so  accustomed  to  that  morning 
—"Furnished  Rooms." 

Half  an  hour  later  she  made  her  exit  from  the 
house,  having  completed  her  arrangement  to 
become  a  tenant  that  same  day.  Its  sole  oc- 
cupant at  the  time  was  the  landlady.  Miss 
Defoe,  a  spinster  of  advanced  years,  who  dwelt 
there  with  her  brother.  She  was  glad  of  the 
chance  of  a  lodger,  especially  one  who  seemed 
so  gently  tractable.  The  almost  inaccessible 
position  of  the  house  made  it  difficult  to  rent 
the  rooms,  even  at  the  lowest  prices.  Viola 
found  that  the  terms  offered  her  were  more 
desirable  than  those  made  by  Mrs.  Cassidy. 

In  the  afternoon,  having  made  her  escape 


HARD-PAN  249 

from  the  widow's  with  guilty  stealth,  she  took 
up  her  residence  on  the  high  hilltop,  in  a  room 
from  one  window  of  which  she  could  look  out 
through  the  Golden  Gate  on  the  broad  bosom 
of  the  Pacific,  while  from  the  other  she  could 
see  the  dappled  sweep  of  the  Alameda  hills,  with 
Berkeley  and  Oakland  clustering  about  their 
bases. 

A  life  uneventful  and  monotonous  now  began 
for  the  solitary  girl.  The  days  in  the  house  on 
the  hill  passed  with  the  even,  colorless  rapidity 
of  days  full  of  uninteresting  duties  and  bereft 
of  the  stimulus  of  hope.  Viola  plodded  on 
doggedly,  with  her  head  down  and  her  eyes  on 
the  furrow  before  her.  Work  had  cropped  up 
quickly,  and  she  turned  to  it  with  dull  resolu- 
tion. In  the  back  of  the  house  some  former 
tenant  had  built  a  small  greenhouse,  which, 
during  the  Defoes'  occupancy,  had  been  left  in 
dusty  desuetude.  Being  granted  the  use  of  it, 
she  cleaned  and  repaired  it,  and  here  once  more 
plied  her  old  graceful  trade  of  raising  plants. 

Her  friend  the  Kearney  Street  florist,  to 
whom  the  colonel  in  his  grand  days  had  given 
many  profitable  orders,  was  glad  to  help  the 
daughter  of  his  old  patron.  Once  again  Viola 
found  herself  supplying  his  shops  with  the  deli- 
cate ferns  which  grew  so  luxuriantly  under  her 
intelligent  care.  Besides  this,  he  now  and  then 
engaged  her  to  assist  in  making  up  floral  pieces 


250  HARD-PAN 

used  in  decoration  and  at  weddings  and  funerals. 
In  this  branch  of  the  work  she  displayed  so 
much  taste  and  skill  that  her  services  were 
employed  more  and  more  constantly. 

She  earned  enough  to  supply  her  small 
wants,  and  the  remains  of  the  thousand  dollars 
lay  untouched  in  the  bottom  of  her  trunk. 

As  the  winter  began,  with  its  early  darken- 
ing of  the  days,  its  long  gray  spells  of  lowering 
weather,  and  its  first  warm,  hesitating  rains, 
Viola  spent  hours  in  the  small  room  behind  the 
store  in  Kearney  Street,  surrounded  by  flowers 
mounted  on  wire  stalks,  which  she  stuck  into  the 
mossy  mold  that  filled  in  the  skeleton  frames. 
When  the  work  was  heavy  she  was  assisted  by 
the  girl  who  waited  in  the  shop— a  self-confi- 
dent, talkative  young  woman,  whom  every  one 
called  "  Miss  Gladys,"  and  who  had  the  most 
improbably  golden  hair  and  the  most  astonish- 
ingly high  collars  Viola  had  ever  seen.  Never- 
theless, the  confidential  chatter  of  Miss  Gladys, 
which  ranged  over  a  variety  of  topics,  not  the 
least  of  which  was  Miss  Gladys's  own  conquer- 
ing charm  and  its  fatal  power,  had  a  salutary 
effect  in  diverting  Viola  from  her  broodiug 
melancholy. 

Her  hours  in  the  shop  and  greenhouse  acted 
as  preservatives  of  her  physical  health  and  men- 
tal freshness.  Here  she  felt  safe  from  obser- 
vation, and  worked  on,  with  mind  engrossed 


HARD-PAN  251 

and  fingers  busy,  through  the  long  gray  after- 
noons till  the  dark  fell  and  the  early  night 
was  spangled  with  garlands  of  lamps. 

In  the  off  hours,  when  her  plants  did  not 
need  her  attention  and  there  was  no  work  for 
her  at  the  store,  she  took  long  walks.  That 
portion  of  the  city  where  she  had  hidden  her- 
self grew  as  familiar  to  her  as  the  old  one  on 
the  other  side  of  town.  Its  charm  of  a  ruin- 
ous picturesqueness,  of  a  careless  intermingling 
of  alien  races,  of  a  sprawling,  slovenly  serenity 
through  days  drenched  by  sun  and  swept  by 
rain,  was  slowly  revealed  to  her.  Aspects  of 
it  grew  to  have  expressions  of  almost  human 
attraction  or  repulsion.  This  little  blue  glimpse 
of  sea  invited  her,  with  its  suggestion  of  free- 
dom and  space.  That  lowering  alley,  dark  and 
furtive,  with  reluctant  rays  of  sunshine  slant- 
ing down  its  walls,  and  the  gleam  of  eyes 
watching  from  behind  its  stealthy  shutters,  in- 
spired her  imagination  to  strange,  soaring 
flights. 

From  the  summit  of  the  hill  she  looked  down 
on  the  crowding,  dun-colored  city,  cut  cleanly 
with  streets  and  decked  with  feathers  of  smoke, 
and  tried  to  reconstruct  the  village  of  '49 
Here,  far  back,  was  the  curve  of  the  shore ; 
there,  up  the  California  Street  incline,  tents 
and  shanties  were  dotted  through  the  chap- 
arral; and  below,  an  open  sand-space  marked 


252  HARD-PAN 

the  plaza.  The  adobe  of  the  Senora  Briones 
lay  farther  round  in  the  hollow  of  North  Beach ; 
her  father  had  often  shown  her  where  it  stood. 
Now  the  myriad  roofs  of  a  metropolis  stretched 
far  away,  filling  the  valley  and  cresting  the  ad- 
jacent hills.  Domes  and  the  crosses  on  church 
steeples  caught  the  light,  and  from  this  great 
height  the  girdle  of  silver  water  encircled  it  like 
a  restraining  bond. 

The  Italian  and  Spanish  quarter  was  even 
more  interesting.  It  was  farther  round,  on  one 
of  the  steepest  faces  of  the  hill.  The  streets 
seemed  to  share  the  characteristics  of  their  oc- 
cupants. They  all  started  out  bravely  from 
the  level  ground,  ascended  for  a  few  energetic 
blocks,  then  gave  up  the  effort  and  appeared 
to  lazily  collapse  in  a  debris  of  unkempt  houses 
and  squalid  yards.  But  no  one  seemed  to  care. 
A  tranquil  indifference  pervaded  the  quarter. 
Only  the  old  houses— grave,  stucco-fronted 
dwellings,  with  long  windows  under  floriated 
cornices,  and  iron  balconies  skirting  the  upper 
stories — had  the  air  of  looking  out  on  this 
degradation  of  the  once  prosperous  region  with 
the  sad,  patient  dignity  of  a  broken  old  age. 
Here  and  there,  too,  stood  those  dwellings, 
relics  of  Spanish  taste,  which  maintain  a  secret 
and  arresting  suggestion  of  mystery.  They 
are  ramparted  from  vulgar  eyes  by  a  high 
plaster  wall,  which,  through   a  curved  arch- 


HARD-PAN  253 

way,  gives  egress  up  a  flight  of  steps.  All  is 
dark,  mossy,  and  quiet.  Over  the  top  of  the 
wall  great  strands  of  ivy  hang,  and  only  an 
angle  of  windowed  roof  rises  above  the  shelter- 
ing cypress-  and  pepper-trees. 

But  through  decay,  poverty,  and  dirt  the 
love  of  beauty  still  spoke.  It  met  Viola's  eye 
and  gave  her  its  message  in  the  touch  of  green, 
in  the  brilliant  blossom  that  rejoiced  in  its 
existence  on  balcony-rail  and  window-ledge. 
Flowers  were  the  one  ornament  that  was  cheap. 
They  hung  from  windows,  and  stretched  out 
frail  blossoms  from  shadowed  angles.  They 
grew  bushily  in  glad  luxuriance  on  sunny 
roofs,  and  put  forth  buds  of  perfect  beauty 
behind  broken,  grimy  panes.  When  the  sun 
touched  them  they  bloomed,  bravely,  splen- 
didly, prodigally,  giving  forth  their  best.  Old 
verandas,  sagging  under  their  weight  of  de- 
crepitude and  household  overflow,  held  their 
gardens.  In  the  most  menacing  of  the  alleys 
there  was  the  gleam  of  flower  and  leaf  from 
starch-  and  soap-boxes  on  the  ledges  below 
unwashed,  unshuttered  casements.  Viola  had 
seen  children  leaning  over  the  sills  as  they 
searched  with  pouting,  busy  gravity  for  a  bud 
to  pluck ;  and  sometimes  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  coarse,  painted  face  of  some  humble 
Aspasia  of  the  quarter  bending  over  her  win- 
dow-garden,   where    the    flowers    bloomed   as 


254  HARD-PAN 

luxuriantly  for  her  as  they  did  for  the  children 
on  the  floors  above. 

With  the  advance  of  winter  and  its  multi- 
plying gaieties,  Viola's  engagements  at  the  flor- 
ist's grew  more  and  more  frequent,  her  hours 
longer.  Her  employer  realized  that  she  was  a 
more  than  ordinarily  valuable  acquisition,  and 
constantly  demanded  the  assistance  of  her  skill 
and  taste.  She  was  often  detained  till  long 
after  dark,  when  she  made  a  weary  way  up  the 
hill  to  the  cold  dinner  that  had  been  awaiting 
her  since  six  o'clock.  On  one  of  these  nights,  at 
the  beginning  of  the  rainy  season,  she  walked 
past  her  destiny  unseeing  and  unsuspecting. 

It  had  been  a  lowering  day.  The  clouds  lying 
low  and  gray  over  the  city  bulged  with  rain 
which  did  not  fall.  The  wind  was  moist  and 
sweet,  smelling  as  if  it  had  blown  over  miles  of 
rich  earth,  quick  with  germinating  seed.  Peo- 
ple were  out  with  umbrellas,  and  the  children 
as  they  came  home  from  school  were  protected 
by  mackintoshes  and  rubbers. 

Gault,  walking  up  Kearney  Street  in  the  gray 
of  the  late  afternoon,  observed  his  sister-in- 
law's  coupe  standing  at  the  curb  before  a  popu- 
lar confectioner's.  As  he  approached,  Letitia 
emerged  from  the  shop,  her  hands  full  of  small 
boxes,  and  crossed  the  sidewalk  to  the  car- 
riage. He  encountered  her  half-way,  and 
paused  with   her  by  the  carriage  door  for  a 


HARD-PAN  255 

moment's  greeting.  G-ault  did  not  see  as  much 
of  his  brother's  household  as  formerly.  They 
knew  of  Viola  Reed's  disappearance;  and  Le- 
titia  from  delicacy  and  Maud  from  a  sense  of 
guilty  embarrassment  refrained  from  urging 
him  to  reestablish  himself  on  the  old  footing  of 
careless  intimacy. 

He  said  now,  in  response  to  Letitia's  query 
why  he  absented  himself  so  much,  that  he  was 
getting  old  and  had  to  go  to  bed  early.  "  For 
beauty  sleep,  you  know,"  he  added,  looking  at 
her  with  his  eyes  smiling  behind  his  glasses. 
"You  don't  need  that,  do  you,  Tishy?  Hullo, 
there  's  the  rain !  " 

The  first  drops,  swollen,  slow,  and  reluctant, 
spotted  the  pavement.  The  air  felt  curious- 
ly damp,  and  had  a  languid  softness  in  its 
touch. 

Letitia  looked  up  at  the  low-hanging  clouds, 
and  a  drop  fell  on  her  cheek. 

"  Yes,  there  it  is,"  she  said.  "  Get  in  the 
carriage  and  come  home  to  dinner,  John.  No 
one  will  be  there— just  ourselves." 

He  said  he  had  an  engagement  for  dinner. 

"  Well,  then,  get  in  the  carriage  and  drive 
with  me  down  to  South  Park,  where  I  have  a 
message  to  give  a  scrub- woman.  I  've  got 
something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 

He  obediently  entered,  and  the  coachman 
turned  the  horses'  heads  in  the  direction  of 
South  Park. 


256  HARD-PAN 

The  afternoon  had  suddenly  darkened  as  if  a 
pall  had  been  unfurled  across  the  sky.  The 
streets  without  had  burst  into  a  forest  of  um- 
brellas, already  shining,  and  agitated  with 
curiously  unsteady  movements  as  the  bearers 
hurried  this  way  and  that.  The  rain  was  still 
falling  slowly,  but  the  drops  were  large.  A 
little  flurry  of  wind  lashed  the  window  with 
them  as  the  coupe  made  its  way  through  the 
melee  of  vehicles  and  over  the  car-tracks  at 
Lotta's  Fountain.  An  eery,  yellowish  light 
seemed  to  be  diffusing  itself  from  the  horizon, 
and  to  have  crept  along  under  the  dark  cope  of 
the  storm. 

Letitia  leaned  forward,  looking  out  at  the 
figures  of  the  passers-by,  butting  against  the 
wind  with  lowered  umbrellas,  and  then  jerking 
them  aside  and  giving  a  scared  look  up  and 
down  for  a  threatening  car.  Gault,  leaning 
back,  could  see  her  profile  clearly  defined 
against  the  pale  square  of  the  window.  On  the 
little  seat  in  front  of  them  she  had  dropped 
all  her  parcels,  and  a  bunch  of  violets  that  she 
had  thrust  into  a  convenience  for  that  pur- 
pose filled  the  carriage  with  its  soft  and  subtle 
fragrance.  Outside,  the  bells  of  the  cars 
clanged  furiously,  and  at  moments  the  rain 
was  dashed  against  the  window  and  then 
diverted. 

"Well,  Tishy,"   he  said,  "what  's  the  com- 


HARD-PAN  257 

munication  you  're  going  to  make  ?  As  far  as 
I  know,  when  a  lady  speaks  solemnly  of  having 
an  important  matter  to  impart,  it  only  means 
one  thing." 

"  What 's  that ! "  asked  Letitia,  without  re- 
sponding to  the  raillery  of  his  tone. 

"  That  she  is  going  to  be  married." 

"Well,  that  's  just  it,"  she  answered,  and 
continued  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

"What?" 

Gault  leaned  forward  and  tried  to  see  what 
her  face  revealed.  It  was  handsome  as  ever, 
calm  and  imperturbable. 

"  That  's  just  it,"  she  repeated,  turning  to- 
ward him  and  letting  her  eyes  dwell  gravely 
on  his.  "  That 's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  to  you 
about." 

"  Tishy !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  Why,  you  amaze 
me!" 

"  Why  should  I  ? "  she  queried.  "  Everybody 
gets  married  sometime  or  other." 

"I  know,  but— who  is  it?" 

"  Tod  McCormick." 

"  Oh,  Letitia !  "  he  exclaimed  in  quite  a  dif- 
ferent tone— a  man's  tone  of  sudden  revolt  and 
protest.     "  Tod  McCormick  f  " 

"  Yes,  of  course,  Tod  McCormick.  I  should 
think  you  would  have  guessed  him  in  a  minute." 

"He  's  the  last  person  I  ever  should  have 
thought  of." 


258  HARD-PAN 

"Well,  is  n't  that  odd!  Everybody  knows 
Tod 's  been  fond  of  me.  It 's  been  going  on  for 
years— five  or  six,  I  should  think." 

"  A  woman  does  n't  marry  a  man  because  he 
happens  to  be  fond  of  her.  She  marries  a  man 
because  she  happens  to  be  fond  of  him." 

"  She  sometimes  does— if  she  's  very  lucky, 
and  things  turn  out  exactly  right.  But  things 
don't  often  turn  out  exactly  right.  Besides,  I 
like  Tod." 

"  Yes— like  him,  of  course.  Everybody  likes 
him.  Maud  likes  him,  and  Mortimer,  and,  I  've 
no  doubt,  hundreds  of  other  people.  But  lik- 
ing 's  a  poor  sort  of  thing  to  marry  on.  It 's  a 
bad  substitute  for  love.  A  woman  ought  to 
love  the  man  she  marries." 

"Yes,  I  suppose  she  ought;  and  in  novels 
she  always  does— unless  she  hates  him  terribly. 
But  in  real  life  girls  don't  love  or  hate  so  des- 
perately as  all  that.  We  just  go  along  easily, 
taking  things  as  they  come." 

"Why  are  you  going  to  marry  him,  if  you 
don't  love  him  ? "  he  asked  in  a  tone  of  irritation. 

"  I  think  it 's  better  to  marry.  You  see,  there 
is  n't  really  anything  else  for  a  girl  like  me  to 
do.  Besides,— don't  misunderstand  me,— I  tell 
you  I  like  him  very  much." 

He  ignored  the  remark  and  said : 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  want  to  marry  for  at 
all.     Wait  till  the  right  man  comes  along." 


HARD-PAN  259 

"  Oh,  the  right  man !  "  she  answered,  with  a 
little  laugh  which  was  the  nearest  approach  to 
a  bitter  laugh  he  had  ever  heard  from  her. 
"That  's  what  they  keep  telling  us.  But 
we  may  have  met  the  right  man,  and  he  's 
never  found  out  that  he  was  the  right  man, 
or  perhaps  has  n't  felt  that  we  were  the  right 
woman." 

"  A  man  must  be  a  fool  if  he  can't  see  when 
a  woman  cares  for  him,"  he  answered. 

For  a  moment  Letitia  looked  silently  out  of 
the  window;  then  she  continued,  but  without 
turning  her  head:  "Men  seem  to  think  that 
women  can  marry  any  one  they  want.  We 
have  to  wait  till  we  're  asked.  And  the  men 
that  ask  us  are  not  always  the  men  that  we 
would  like  the  best.  Novelists  would  make 
you  think  a  girl  has  nothing  to  do  but  make 
her  choice  from  dozens  of  suitors  who  are  all 
crazy  about  her.  But  that 's  not  true— not  in 
California,  anyway.  I  've  only  had  three  real 
offers  in  my  life,  and  I  've  got  money,  and  "— 
she  made  a  little  pause,  and  then  added  bravely 
— "  and  I  'm  handsome." 

Gault  leaned  forward,  and,  in  a  sudden  elan  of 
admiration  for  the  honest,  simple,  strong- 
hearted  creature,  took  her  hand. 

"Dearest  Tishy,"  he  said,  "don't  do  this. 
Don't  make  a  hasty  marriage  with  a  man  who 
is  —  who  is— not  worthy  of  you." 


260  HARD-PAN 

Her  hand  remained  motionless  for  a  moment, 
and  then  she  drew  it  away. 

"  Don't  say  that.  Tod  's  quite  worthy  of  me," 
she  answered.  "  He  's  a  first-rate  fellow,  but 
you  never  liked  him,  and  so  you  never  appre- 
ciated his  good  points.  He 's  not  good-looking, 
and  that  's  made  people  misunderstand  him." 

Gault  smothered  a  groan,  and  she  went  on : 

"  You  asked  me  why  I  wanted  to  marry  at 
all.  There  's  nothing  else  for  a  woman  in  my 
position  to  do.  I  'm  not  bright.  I  can't  do 
anything  like  writing,  or  painting,  or  making 
statues.  All  I  do  now  is  to  help  Maud  when 
she  has  dinners,  and  talk  to  the  dull  people. 
And  you  know"— her  voice  dropping  to  a  key 
of  naive  confidence— "I  sometimes  feel  that 
I  'd  like  to  have  a  home  of  my  own— a  house 
where  I  could  do  just  what  I  liked,  and  have 
the  sort  of  people  I  liked  to  dinner.  Maud 
does  n't  care  for  the  kind  of  people  I  do." 

"  Why  don't  you  have  it,  then !  You  're  of 
age;  you  're  financially  independent.  You 
can  do  exactly  what  you  like.  You  seem  to 
forget  that  this  is  the  United  States  at  the  end 
of  the  nineteenth  century." 

"  No,  I  don't  forget ;  but  that  does  n't  make 
it  any  easier  for  me.  I  can't  go  off  and  live  all 
by  myself.  And  think  what  a  fuss  Mortimer 
and  Maud  would  make !  It  would  drive  Maud 
crazy  if  I   did  that.     People  would  say  I  'd 


HARD-PAN  261 

quarreled  with  her,  and  she  can't  stand  people 
saying  things  like  that.  I  don't  like  it,  either. 
And  it  would  hurt  Mortimer's  feelings  dread- 
fully. He  'd  think  I  was  n't  happy  with  them. 
You  could  n't  make  him  understand.  Be- 
sides, I  don't  want  to  live  in  a  house  of  my 
own  all  alone.  I  'd  die  of  the  blues.  Think 
how  dismal  I  'd  be  with  nobody  but  servants 
and  Chinamen !  " 

Gault  looked  out  of  the  window  near  him 
and  made  no  immediate  response.  The  ap- 
pearance of  squalor  which  marked  the  street 
was  intensified  by  the  rain,  which  was  now 
falling  heavily.  Already  the  pavements  shone 
with  the  greasiness  of  well-tramped  mud. 
Miserable  pedestrians,  without  umbrellas  and 
in  scanty  clothes,  stood  under  the  dripping 
projections  before  show-windows,  looking  out 
with  yellow,  dejected  faces.  Others  plodded 
drearily  onward,  their  heads  lowered  against 
the  descending  flood.  Women  passed,  with 
bare,  red  hands  gripping  at  their  sodden  skirts. 
In  the  depths  of  the  dark  interiors  Gault  had 
seen  so  often,  lights  were  being  kindled  that 
shone  like  small  red  sparks  in  the  thick,  smother- 
ing gloom.  Without  turning  from  the  win- 
dow, he  said : 

"  But  why  marry  Tod  ?  If  you  want  liberty, 
a  larger  and  more  independent  life,  why  not 
choose  some  one  else!" 


262  HARD-PAN 

Letitia  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
said  in  rather  an  offended  tone : 

"  There  's  nothing  so  dreadful  about  Tod.  I 
don't  like  the  way  you  speak  about  him.  It 
sounds  as  if  he  was  idiotic  or  deformed.  I 
like  him  more  than  I  do  almost  any  one.  I  re- 
spect him,  too.  And  then,"  she  added,  in  one 
of  her  uncontrollable  bursts  of  candor,"  there  's 
nobody  else  wants  to  marry  me." 

Gault  gave  an  annoyed  ejaculation.  The 
carriage  turned  from  the  main  thoroughfare 
and  began  jolting  over  the  cobbles  of  a  paved 
street. 

"Then  wait  till  somebody  better  does,"  he 
said.  "  Heavens,  Letitia !  to  think  of  you,  that 
I  've  always  looked  upon  as  a  model  of  reason 
and  sense  and  intelligence,  throwing  yourself 
away  like  this,  when  five— ten  years  from 
now  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  marry." 

"  I  '11  be  twenty-seven  next  month,"  replied 
Letitia,  with  her  ruthless  regard  for  veracity. 

The  carriage  here  stopped  at  a  high-stooped 
porch,  and  the  coachman,  ahghting,  delivered 
Letitia's  message.  While  they  waited,  silence 
rested  between  its  occupants,  and  continued 
when  they  were  once  more  rattling  over  the 
uneven  cobbles  toward  the  wider  street  they 
had  recently  left. 

Darkness  had  settled  by  this  time,  and  the 
lamps  were  breaking  out  in  every  direction. 


HARD-PAN  263 

the  long  lines  of  the  rain  looking  like  threads 
of  glass  against  their  light.  The  force  of  the 
storm  was  augmenting.  The  drops  beat  on 
the  top  of  the  carriage  with  a  drumming,  pug- 
nacious violence,  and  now  and  then  dashed 
across  the  window.  There  were  already  pools 
in  the  hollows  of  the  pavement,  and  from  bent 
gutter-pipes  long  ribbons  of  water,  torn  by  the 
gusts,  sprang  down  on  unwary  passers-by. 

Letitia  took  her  handkerchief  and  rubbed 
away  the  moisture  on  the  pane.  She  was  look- 
ing out  on  the  spectacle  of  the  swimming  streets 
with  apparent  interest.  The  conversation  had 
not  been  resumed.  She  had  nothing  more  to 
say,  and  Gault  sat  back  in  his  corner  immersed 
in  silent  thought.  Once  he  had  asked  her  if 
her  engagement  to  Tod  was  a  fully  accom- 
plished and  recognized  fact.  To  this  she  had 
replied  that  it  was  not,  exactly,  as  Tod  was  to 
receive  her  final  answer  on  the  following  Sun- 
day, but  that  as  far  as  she  was  concerned  it 
was  a  settled  thing. 

Leaning  back  in  the  darkened  corner,  Gault 
bitterly  inveighed  against  the  social  system 
which  allows  such  a  mismating;  against  the 
narrowing  laws  of  conventionality  which  had 
fettered  so  strong  a  spirit  as  Letitia ;  above  all, 
against  that  weakness  of  the  woman  which 
makes  life  alone  so  impossible  to  her  un suffi- 
cing and  dependent  spirit.    What  a  fate  for  this 


264  HARD-PAN 

creature,  so  rich  and  tender  in  her  splendid 
womanhood!  Letitia  to  make  such  a  mar- 
riage—Letitia,  whom  nature  had  designed  to 
be  some  strong  man's  guide  and  solace,  to  be 
the  queen  of  a  gracious  home,  the  mother  of 
tall  sons  and  blooming  daughters !  It  was  a 
sacrilege. 

The  carriage  rolled  out  upon  Market  Street, 
amid  a  din  of  car-bells  and  the  roar  of  inter- 
secting streams  of  traffic.  The  outlines  of  the 
high  newspaper  buildings  were  hazy  in  the 
blur  of  the  rain,  but  their  illuminated  windows 
seemed  dotting  the  sky  far  up  toward  the 
zenith,  where  they  burst  into  a  splutter  of 
lights.  From  every  point  cars  seemed  to  be 
advancing,  with  their  lanterns  shooting  rays 
through  the  wet,  and  stretches  of  pavement  and 
pools  of  water  gave  forth  sudden  gleams.  The 
whole  scene,  lights  magnified  and  outlines  erased 
by  the  rain,  had  a  chaotic,  broken  effect  of  glar- 
ing radiance  and  softly  dark,  looming  vagueness. 

Letitia  again  rubbed  the  window  and  leaned 
forward.  Her  companion  could  see  the  out- 
line of  her  head  against  the  light,  as  if  it  were 
a  silhouette  backgrounded  with  gold-leaf.  Why 
should  he  not  marry  her  ?  Would  he  not  be  a 
better  mate  for  her  than  the  witless  and  sickly 
boy  to  whom  she  intended  binding  her  bloom- 
ing youth,  for  whom  she  woukl  pour  out  the 
treasures   of  her  heart   and  reveal  the  sacred 


HARD-PAN  265 

places  of  a  nature  that  he  could  never  under- 
stand or  appreciate  ? 

She  did  not  care  for  Tod.  Her  very  asser- 
tions of  a  liking  for  him  seemed  to  the  man  of 
the  world  proof  of  Ijer  indifference.  He  could 
make  her  care  for  him.  He  was  certain  of  it. 
He  was  certain  that  even  now  she  had  more 
real  affection  for  him — far  removed  from  love 
though  it  was— than  she  had  for  the  brainless 
lad  who  next  Sunday  would  be  her  acknow- 
ledged fiance. 

What  was  the  use  of  wasting  a  life  in  regrets 
for  what  was  past,  for  what  was  irrevocably 
gone  ?  Alone,  he  would  go  drearily  on,  forever 
dreaming  of  his  lost  paradise.  He  was  so 
wretched  in  the  isolation  of  his  own  accusing 
loneliness !  Life  was  slipping  by  him  unlived. 
The  future  loomed  dark  and  terrible,  bereft  of 
hope  and  promise.  He  cowered  before  its  vast, 
cold  emptiness.  There  was  nothing  that  of- 
fered him  a  refuge  from  its  enveloping  despair 
but  an  affection  in  which  he  could  forget  the 
might-have-beens  that  now  were  unforgetable. 
The  dreariness  of  that  long  road  would  only  be 
beguiled  by  a  loved  presence  at  his  side,  a  soft 
hand  in  his.  And  he  would  make  Letitia 
happy— a  thousand  times  happier  than  she 
would  be  with  Tod. 

His  thoughts  reached  an  abrupt  decision. 
He  leaned  forward. 


266  HARD-PAN 

"  Letitia,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  the  low  pitch 
of  which  did  not  conceal  a  peremptory  note. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  rather  listlessly,  with- 
out turning  from  the  window. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you." 

"  Is  it  that  you  're  going  to  be  married, 
too?"  she  asked,  smiling. 

"  No — at  least,  I  don't  know.  Listen  to  me. 
I  want — " 

She  checked  him  with  a  sudden  cry,  and 
leaned  forward,  staring  out  of  the  window. 

"  Oh,  John— wait !  That  girl !  Did  you  see 
her "?    I  'm  almost  sure  it  was  Viola  Reed." 

In  an  instant  every  thought  of  Letitia  had 
vanished  from  his  mind. 

"Where?"  he  said.  "What  girl?  Which  way 
did  she  go?" 

"  Look  out  of  the  back  window,"  said  Letitia, 
greatly  excited.  "  Do  you  see  her?  A  woman 
in  black,  walking  quickly.  I  just  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her  side  face  as  she  moved  her  um- 
brella, and  it  looked  very  like." 

Through  the  small  back  window  Gault  saw 
the  woman— a  slender  figure  in  black,  the  head 
bent  forward  under  the  fronting  shield  of  her 
umbrella.  As  she  passed  a  lamp  he  saw  the 
gleam  of  blond  hair.  She  was  walking  so  rap- 
idly that  already  she  was  some  distance  away. 
He  pulled  the  strap,  and  the  carriage  came  to  a 
jolting  halt. 


HARD-PAN  267 

"  Letitia,"  he  said,  turning  toward  her  and 
trying  to  speak  quietly,  "  you  '11  excuse  me, 
won't  you  I  I  'm  going  to  get  out.  Yes,  I  'm 
going  to  follow  her — I  must.  I  don't  know 
whether  it 's  she  or  not,  but  it  may  be.  Good 
night." 

He  was  out  and  the  door  shut  before  Le- 
titia could  answer.  As  the  carriage  rolled 
on  she  turned  and  through  the  window  fol- 
lowed his  pursuing  figure  with  eagerly  in- 
terested eyes. 

It  was  Viola.  At  the  end  of  the  block  she 
turned  into  the  florist's,  where  she  had  agreed 
to  come  and  spend  the  evening  helping  Miss 
Gladys  on  some  extra  orders.  She  passed 
through  the  store  into  the  room  beyond,  and, 
donning  her  black  apron,  was  soon  busy.  The 
two  girls  were  working  and  talking  together 
when  Gault  stopped  at  the  street  door  and 
swept  the  flower- scented  interior  with  a  search- 
ing gaze.  He  had  done  this  at  every  shop  on 
the  block.  Yet,  though  he  went  up  and  down, 
hunting  in  every  corner,  in  every  darkened 
doorway  where  she  might  possibly  have  sought 
shelter,  she  had  disappeared  as  completely  as 
if  the  passing  glimpse  of  her  had  been  a 
vision. 

Letitia  had  evidently  made  a  mistake. 
Slowly  through  the  rain  Gault  walked  home 
to  his  rooms. 


268  HARD-PAN 

It  was  two  hours  later  when  Viola  started  to 
leave  the  florist's.  The  storm  was  raging  with 
all  the  malignant  intensity  of  driving  rain  and 
a  wind  that  lay  in  wait  at  corners  and  sprang 
upon  the  wayfarer.  She  made  part  of  her  jour- 
ney on  the  electric  car,  but  the  long  climb  up 
the  hill  had  to  be  accomplished  on  foot.  About 
this  high  point  the  wind  met  few  obstacles,  and 
swept  by,  shouting  hoarsely  in  the  joy  of  its 
freedom. 

It  played  with  Viola  like  a  cat  with  a  mouse  — 
at  one  moment  swept  her  forward  in  a  sail-like 
spread  of  skirt,  at  the  next  turned  upon  her, 
buffeting  her  furiously  back  against  the  stream- 
ing walls,  tearing  at  her  hat,  driving  the  rain 
into  her  face,  down  her  neck,  up  her  sleeves. 
It  seized  her  umbrella  and  whisked  it  this  way 
and  that,  while  she  held  its  handle  and  help- 
lessly followed  its  eccentric  course.  When  half- 
way up  the  hill  she  was  forced  to  shut  it,  and 
then,  angry  with  her  for  thus  terminating  its 
sport,  the  wind  concentrated  its  spiteful  anger 
upon  her. 

It  blew  steadily  in  her  face,  except  at  the  mo- 
ments when  she  crossed  an  intersecting  street. 
Then  it  seemed  to  blow  from  all  points  at  once, 
seizing  her  and  shaking  her,  whirling  her  about, 
throwing  her  against  a  gate  or  into  the  drenched, 
yielding  leafage  of  a  hedge,  and  then  creeping 
up  behind  her  and  beating  against  her  with  a 


HARD-PAN  269 

force  that  almost  sent  her  on  her  face.  Her 
clothes  clung  to  her,  saturated  and  heavy,  con- 
fining her  limbs  with  their  clammy  hold.  The 
water  streamed  off  her  hat  and  oozed  out  of  her 
shoes.  Once  she  was  forced  to  take  shelter  on 
a  door-step,  under  the  jutting  roof  of  a  balcony. 
From  this  she  crept  onward,  clinging  close  to 
the  walls,  down  which  water  ran  in  wide  rills, 
and  where  long  strands  of  creepers  struck  her 
with  their  wet  leaves.  Once  in  the  cottage,  she 
threw  her  clothes  out  of  the  window  on  the 
balcony,  and  crept  shivering  to  bed. 

The  storm  wore  itself  away  in  the  course  of 
the  week,  to  be  followed  by  an  interval  of 
bright  weather,  and  then  by  other  storms. 
There  were  short  ones,  when  the  rain  came 
and  went  with  a  sudden  rolling  up  of  clouds 
and  breaks  of  blue,  and  the  sun  burst  out 
hopefully  and  licked  up  the  moisture.  There 
were  long  ones,  when  the  rain  fell  in  warm, 
rustling  floods,  copious  but  gentle,  that 
assuaged  the  earth's  thirst  and  poured  down 
in  silvery  lances  from  a  low,  swollen  sky.  There 
were  blustering  ones,  that  lashed  the  windows 
and  threshed  against  the  pavements,  flooded 
the  sewers,  and  tried  to  force  an  entrance 
through  opened  casements  and  doors  left  ajar. 
And  then  the  great,  conscientious,  businesslike 
ones,  which  went  on  day  after  day,  oblivious  of 
anything  but  their  duty  to  thoroughly  saturate 


270  HARD-PAN 

the  dry  ground  far  down  through  its  parched 
crust  to  where  the  seeds  lay  waiting  for  the 
moisture  that  was  to  give  them  life. 

So  the  time  wore  on  till  Christmas  began  to 
loom  close  at  hand,  and  all  the  town  was  agog 
with  its  holiday  shopping. 

Maud  Gault  and  Letitia  splashed  about  the 
dripping  streets  in  a  hired  coupe,  which  returned 
from  every  trip  full  of  packages.  Mortimer 
went  alone  to  Shreve's  and  bought  his  wife  and 
sister-in-law  costly  surprises.  John  ordered  his 
presents,— there  were  a  good  many  of  them,— all 
but  the  beautiful  turquoise  clasp  for  Letitia, 
which  he  selected  himself.  Tod  gave  his  moth  er 
money  to  buy  his  sisters  suitable  gifts,  but  took 
with  him  a  friend  of  acknowledged  taste  when 
he  went  to  choose  the  necklet  of  small  diamonds 
and  emeralds  that  was  to  carry  his  greetings  to 
the  fortunate  Miss  Mason. 

On  Christmas  eve  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mortimer 
Grault  gave  a  large  dinner  for  their  sister, 
whose  engagement  to  Mr.  Theodore  McCor- 
mick  had  been  announced  a  short  time  before. 
Society  had  often  predicted  this  finale  to  the 
attachment  which  it  was  known  Mr.  Theodore 
McCormick  had  long  cherished  for  Miss  Mason. 
Society  did  not  concern  itself  about  Miss  Ma- 
son's sentiments  on  the  subject.  That  Mr. 
Theodore  McCormick  was  the  only  son  of  Jerry 
McCormick,  one  of  the  richest  of  the  bonanza 


HARD-PAN  271 

men,  was  supposed  to  be  sufficient  ground  for 
Miss  Mason  to  have  been  pleased  and  flattered 
by  his  choice  of  herself.  Society  regarded  her 
as  a  very  lucky  girl. 

John  Grault  had  gone  to  this  dinner  reluc- 
tantly. The  thought  of  Letitia's  marriage  with 
Tod  was  as  repulsive  to  him  after  a  month  had 
familiarized  his  mind  with  it,  as  it  had  been 
on  the  day  Letitia  told  him  of  it.  That  the 
large-hearted  girl,  whose  simple  honesty  of 
nature  he  had  learned  long  ago  to  respect  and 
rely  on,  was  to  give  the  freshness  and  beauty 
of  her  life  to  the  feeble  and  half-bred  son  of  a 
day-laborer,  seemed  to  him  a  sacrilege  worthy 
of  the  days  of  Molech.  He  had  seen  little 
of  Letitia  lately.  When  he  had  been  at  his 
brother's  she  had  generally  been  absent,  stay- 
ing at  the  McCormicks',  or  dining  elsewhere 
with  Tod.  Whatever  her  feelings  for  her 
fiance  were,  Gault  saw  that,  with  her  unswerv- 
ing obedience  to  convention  and  duty,  she  was 
evidently  doing  her  best  to  understand  and 
grow  fond  of  him. 

To-night,  however,  at  the  dinner,  he  saw 
that  a  change  had  taken  place  in  her.  It  was 
so  subtle,  so  illusive,  so  hard  to  define,  that  for 
a  space  he  watched  her  surreptitiously,  won- 
dering what  it  was.  Yet  even  as  he  shook 
hands  with  her  in  the  moment  of  greeting,  he 
saw  it  in  her  face,  he  felt  it  radiating  from  her. 


272  HARD-PAN 

like  the  warm  individual  atmosphere  that  is 
said  to  encompass  us  and  contain  the  color  of 
our  personality. 

Her  eyes  dwelt  on  his  with  a  bright,  soft 
inner  look  of  happiness,  but  happiness  aloof 
and  far  away  from  him.  The  impersonal,  cold 
sweetness  of  her  glance  seemed  to  put  him  at 
a  great  distance,  to  herd  him  together  with  all 
the  hundred  other  casual  people  that  she  knew 
and  spoke  to,  and  liked  and  forgot.  Some 
mysterious  influence  had  suddenly  withered 
their  friendship.  Its  richness  and  reality  were 
gone,  and  as  he  met  that  sparkling,  conscious, 
and  yet  distant  glance,  he  realized  that  Letitia 
was  no  longer  his  friend,  nor  yet  his  enemy, 
but  from  henceforth  would  be  the  same  Letitia 
to  him  that  she  was  to  his  brother,  that  she 
had  once  been  to  Tod. 

She  was  in  love  with  Tod  McCormick.  It 
was  incredible,  inconceivable,  but  true.  He 
saw  it  in  the  abashed  and  yet  proud  conscious- 
ness of  her  manner  to  him,  in  her  averted  eye, 
in  the  indefinable  softening  of  her  whole  pres- 
ence when  the  meager- visaged  lad  addressed 
her.  Inside  she  glowed  with  the  consciousness 
of  the  developing  of  her  life ;  but  her  eyes  only 
let  a  little  of  the  inner  light  out  in  their  shy 
shining.  That  was  why  they  had  lost  their 
look  of  a  dear,  comfortable  intimacy  when  they 
met  his.    Now  they  said  that  all  that  was  over, 


HARD-PAN  273 

a  remnant  of  freedom  that  must  die  with 
girlhood  and  its  other  relinquished  liberties. 
Everything  belonged  to  some  one  else  now— 
not  love  alone,  but  interest,  loyalty,  confidence, 
duty.  The  rest  of  the  world  was  only  to  get 
that  cool  interest,  that  gentle,  remote  kindness, 
which  is  the  husk  of  the  woman's  heart.  The 
kernel  was  for  her  mate.  With  her  maidenhood 
would  end  for  Letitia  all  life  but  such  as  bore 
on  the  life  of  her  husband. 

Gault  had  lost  her,  even  as  he  had  lost  Viola. 
He  had  thought  of  marriage  removing  her  from 
the  close,  interested  friendliness  of  the  old  days, 
but  he  had  never  realized  that  it  would  wean 
her  from  him  with  this  cold  completeness.  She 
wore  the  semblance  of  the  Letitia  of  the  past, 
with  strange,  bright,  alien  eyes,  and  a  soft  hand 
that  held  his  with  the  slack,  indifferent  clasp  of 
polite  acquaintance.  Women— would  he  ever 
understand  themf  Would  any  man?  What 
mystery  was  behind  their  white  foreheads  and 
under  their  white  breasts  f 

A  rush  of  unutterable  sadness,  of  dreary,  sick 
depression,  overwhelmed  him.  He  was  hardly 
able  to  respond  intelligently  to  the  conversa- 
tional inanities  of  Pearl,  who  sat  beside  him. 
A  numbing  consciousness  of  the  futility  and 
hopelessness  of  life  invaded  him,  and  with  it,  in 
the  midst  of  the  noise  and  glitter  of  the  bril- 
liant scene,  a  sense  of  isolation  and  a  yearning 

18 


274  HARD-PAN 

for  the  woman  who,  in  this  gay  throng,  would 
have  felt  lonely  as  he,  and  have  turned  to  him 
as  her  one  soul-mate.  Suppose  to-night  she 
had  been  waiting  for  him  in  the  bare  parlor 
down  near  South  Park! 

A  sudden  resolve  seized  upon  him.  As  soon 
as  dinner  was  over  he  excused  himself  to  Mrs. 
Gault  and  Letitia,  hurried  on  his  overcoat,  and 
slipped  away. 

It  had  been  raining  all  day— the  warm,  abun- 
dant rain  of  late  December.  The  breath  of  the 
night  was  softly  damp,  and  fragrant  with  scents 
from  the  saturated  gardens.  The  avenue  was 
deserted  and  noiseless,  save  for  the  even  rustle 
of  the  falling  flood,  which  made  the  asphalt 
shine  like  ice,  into  which  the  lamps'  reflections 
stabbed  in  long,  broken  poniards.  Nobody  was 
abroad.  It  was  Christmas  eve.  There  were 
wreaths  in  the  lighted  windows,  and  sounds 
of  singing  now  and  then  fell  upon  Grault's 
ear. 

He  boarded  the  car  which  crossed  the  avenue 
farther  down,  and  sat  in  the  glare  of  its  lamps, 
his  face  fallen  into  lines  of  spiritless  apathy. 
When  it  reached  its  terminus  he  alighted. 

There  were  life  and  movement  enough  here. 
People  were  jostling  on  the  sloppy  sidewalks ; 
umbrellas  struck  against  umbrellas,  some- 
times, in  an  elbow-brushing  contact,  caught 
together,  and  were  dragged  apart  with  a  spatter- 


HARD-PAN  275 

mg  of  moisture  over  laughing  faces.  The  rain 
dripped  monotonously  down  on  them,  between 
them,  across  the  glare  of  windows,  over  the 
rheumy  halo  of  lamps,  off  the  cope  of  cornices 
and  the  angles  of  gutters.  The  even  roar  of 
Market  Street  was  broken  into  by  the  deep 
voices  of  hilarious  men  and  the  shrill  notes  of 
women.  Eaucous  laughter  was  interrupted  by 
the  sudden  petulant  wail  of  tired  children.  Over 
all  the  light  of  show-windows  poured  in  a  steady 
glare,  unsoftened  by  the  veil  of  rain.  It  was 
reflected  from  innumerable  wet  surfaces,  un- 
covered faces  that  were  moist,  draperies  beaded 
with  drops,  bits  of  sidewalk,  pools  in  little  hol- 
lows, and  the  black  and  gleaming  bosses  of  hun- 
dreds of  umbrellas. 

Grault,  unheeded  and  unheeding,  hurried 
through  the  press,  crossed  Market  Street,  and 
plunged  into  the  region  beyond.  There  were 
crowds  here  too,  and  lights  and  laughter,  bril- 
liant windows  that  sent  gushes  of  raw  radiance 
across  the  sidewalks,  and  Christmas  shoppers 
as  busy  as  those  on  the  other  side  of  the  city's 
great  dividing  artery.  Even  in  the  old  street, 
among  the  brooding  palaces,  there  was  a  faint 
show  of  life.  In  one  there  were  lights  in  the 
second- story  windows.  Against  the  ground- 
glass  panels  in  the  massive  front  door  of  another 
the  circular  forms  of  two  wreaths  were  outlined. 
The  iron  gate  of  its   bulky  neighbor   grated 


276  HARD-PAN 

grudgingly  to  give  egress  to  an  expressman 
carrying  parcels. 

In  the  smaller  streets  down  which  he  had  so 
often  passed,  the  windows  were  alight  and,  ac- 
cording to  the  gracious  custom  of  the  time,  the 
blinds  were  undrawn.  Sometimes  he  had  a 
glimpse  of  darkling  interiors,  where,  alone  and 
glittering  frostily  in  its  fairy  trimmings,  the 
tree  stood,  not  to  be  revealed  until  the  morrow. 
But  in  many  homes  they  were  keeping  Christ- 
mas eve.  The  rifled  branches,  sparkling  even 
in  their  despoilment,  were  a-wink  with  candles. 
The  children  clustered  about,  some  flushed 
and  excited,  others  sitting  solemnly  among  their 
presents,  examining  them  with  grave  and  pout- 
ing intentness.  There  were  mothers  with  sleep- 
ing babies  in  their  arms,  and  fathers  explaining 
the  mechanism  of  wondrous,  uncomprehended 
toys.  They  were  the  city's  humblest  and  least 
prosperous  homes;  yet,  hidden  by  the  veil  of 
night,  a  man,  rich  in  all  they  lacked,  stood 
staring  in  at  them,  wistful,  heart-hungry,  and 
envious. 

He  turned  the  last  corner,  and  the  small 
shape  of  the  colonel's  old  house  defined  itself 
among  the  surrounding  buildings.  In  the 
kindly  dark  it  looked  as  it  used  to,  and  he  ap- 
proached slowly,  letting  his  gaze  wander  over 
its  facade  and  dwell  on  the  homely  bulge  of  the 
bay-window,  whence,  as  of  old,  light  broke  in 


HARD-PAN  277 

cracks  and  splinters  on  the  small  panes  of  glass 
on  either  side  of  the  front  door,  on  the  steps, 
and  the  porch  that  used  to  sag  down  to  one  side, 
and  the  gate  between  its  squat  brick  posts. 

There  was  no  one  on  the  street,  but  a  block 
away  he  could  hear  the  measured  tread  of  Police- 
man O'Hara  on  his  customary  beat  from  the 
saloon  at  the  corner  to  the  saloon  in  the  middle 
of  the  block.  Beyond  this  there  was  nothing 
but  the  whispering  fall  of  the  rain  and  its  warm 
breath.  Then,  as  he  drew  nearer,  he  passed 
into  an  atmosphere  of  delicate,  illusive  sweet- 
ness that  told  him  the  jasmine-tree  by  the 
gate  was  in  flower.  It  recalled  vividly  other 
times  when  he  had  come  —  but  not  to  stand 
outside  this  way,  a  stranger  in  the  rain. 

He  advanced  slowly.  The  street  was  deserted ; 
no  one  was  there  to  spy  upon  him.  What  would 
he  have  felt  if  to-night  he  had  known  she  was 
there,  and  he  was  coming  to  see  her— coming  like 
a  lover  to  see  her,  when  the  door  opened  to  feel 
her  little  hand  cold  in  his,  and  her  lips  softly 
respond  to  his  welcoming  kiss  —  the  kiss  that 
had  never  been  given,  that  was  never  now  to  be 
returned !  He  would  not  pass  by,  but  would 
stop  at  the  gate  just  for  a  moment,  and  dream 
that  she  was  waiting.  He  paused,  and  then 
started  with  a  suppressed  exclamation. 

Some  one  was  standing  close  in  front  of  him 
in  the  shadow  of  the  jasmine-tree,  and  almost 


278  HARD-PAN 

concealed  by  its  foliage.  He  could  not  see 
whether  the  figure  was  that  of  a  man  or  woman, 
could  only  trace  the  outline  of  a  form  through 
the  darkness  and  rain.  Whoever  it  was,  he  had 
not  been  heard,— the  fall  of  the  rain  muffling 
other  sounds,— and  he  was  now  close  at  hand. 
As  he  stood,  undecided  whether  to  pass  on  or 
turn  back,  the  figure  made  a  stealthy  move- 
ment with  its  arm— appeared  to  part  the  flexible 
Jasmine  branches  and  through  the  aperture 
look  at  the  house.  The  head  was  thus  pre- 
sented to  G-ault  in  partial  profile,  spotted  over 
with  the  moving  lights  that  filtered  between 
the  leaves.  He  saw  it  was  a  woman's,  crowned 
with  some  sort  of  small,  close  hat.  She  seemed 
to  be  watching  the  house.  The  light  caught 
the  curve  of  her  cheek;  it  was  gleaming  with 
moisture. 

"  She  must  be  soaking,"  he  thought,  "  with 
no  umbrella,"  and  made  a  step  forward. 

She  heard  and  started,  and,  still  mechanically 
holding  the  branches  back,  turned  and  looked 
at  him.  For  one  moment,  like  a  memory  from 
another  life,  he  saw  her  face  in  the  light. 

"Viola!"  he  cried,  as  a  man  might  cry  to 
whom  the  beloved  dead  stood  suddenly  revealed. 

She  gave  a  gasping  ejaculation  and  let  go  the 
branches.  In  the  sudden  blotting  out  of  the 
light  he  lost  her,  and,  in  his  terror  and  super- 
stitious dread,  he  thought  he  had  seen  a  vision. 


HARD-PAN  279 

"Viola,"  he  cried  again,  "stay  with  me! 
love  me !  forgive  me !  I  've  prayed  for  you — 
I  've  longed  for  you— I  've  died  for  you  ! 
Don't  leave  me  now !  There  is  no  life  for  me 
without  you ! " 

She  came  forward  beyond  the  dark  shadow 
of  the  tree,  and  the  light  shone  full  on  her.  He 
might  still  have  thought  her  a  vision,  for  her 
face  was  transfigured  with  a  look  that  seemed 
hardly  of  this  earth.  But  the  woman  that  he 
held  in  his  arms  was  warm  with  life,  the  lips 
against  his  gave  back  his  kiss. 

A  few  moments  later  Policeman  O'Hara,  hav- 
ing extended  his  beat  beyond  the  saloons,  saw 
what  he  supposed  to  be  a  single  figure  standing 
opposite  Robson's  house  under  a  dripping  um- 
brella. As  he  approached,  it  suddenly  resolved 
itself  into  two  figures,  and  walked  away  from 
him  under  the  umbrella. 

"  Well,  I  '11  be  jiggered !  "  murmured  the  be- 
wildered policeman.  "  Have  I  got  it  that  bad 
so  early  in  the  evenin'  ? " 

And  judging  that  his  case  was  gone  too  far 
for  help,  he  dropped  into  another  saloon. 

The  two  figures  under  the  one  umbrella  walked 
down  the  street,  out  and  away  through  the  rain, 
seeing  nothing  but  the  vistas  of  glory  which 
open  before  those  who  for  one  moment  stand 
upon  the  pinnacle  of  life. 


„„„  14  DAY  USE 

RBlrmN  TO  DBSK  PROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

lOAN  DEPT. 

—  »uuject  to  immediate  recall. 


— [iovL^^iafiiA?. 


LOAN  DEPT 


— nccnvrn  pv 


— jumrHs^ 


(G4427sl0)476B 


.General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


^-v^^ 

,-^xfi. 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  ■  U.C.  BERKELEY 

11 

BoooB7m>ia 


mSSOIOG 


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